Blood and Bowstrings
by TrailingEducation
Summary: An archer, a throat-cutter, a mage, a spy, the son of Dorian Pavus - Fareld is all of these things, but he simply calls himself 'a loyal Tevinter'. The Imperium's politics of death and deceit run rife within the walls of Minrathous, but as Dorian campaigns for change an old friend returns with news that could threaten the world. [Dorian/Bull]
1. Blood Ties

**Blood and Bowstrings**

News of Halward's death swept quickly through the Imperium.

There were rumours – assassination, poison in the drink, too many servants frustrated with his treatment of them. But none of it mattered. As he sat in the tavern where all the punters were discussing it, Fareld Evodius was more concerned with the aftermath.

Dorian Pavus would soon return to take his father's place.

Fareld's eyes narrowed at the thought. He had no need to listen to rumours and hearsay; Halward's death was all his fellow marksmen would talk about, and how after so long at the magisterium he would be replaced by his estranged son.

Just in time for Fareld to be transferred to Minrathous.

The tavern was warm and loud, with rambunctious labourers speaking to serving girls and hardy women swigging beer, but the child in his hood and cloak could not feel any more disconnected from it all. The soft music strummed from the lutes did not affect him. His surroundings did not liven his mood. He had come to love Vyrantium, though it was certainly no Vol Dorma. The marksmen were true and sharp-eyed, the workers honest, and the few nobles he had encountered were not troublesome – the sight of a quiver offer made them do the same.

"What are you waiting for?" murmured a voice in front of him. Fareld did not look up from his cup, but inside his hood he smiled.

"The rise of the glorious Imperium."

"So you're my contact."

The person sat across from him, signalling that he could sit up. The child did, and when he saw a familiar face in the other chair – a woman by the name of Lorna, a baker's wife of some renown – he had to mask his surprise.

"We've met before," she noted; "Fareld. How is your mother?"

"Dead," he replied; "but that's not what we're here about. Grenas told me Halward's death would open doorways for us."

"It will. Hold on."

Lorna did not remove her hood, but she stood and went to the counter to order herself a drink. The serving girls would have questioned her if not for the high number of 'her kind' in Vyrantium. As it was Fareld had already caused quite the stir with their customers, and despite the fact he was a child none of them would dare eject him.

When she returned to her seat with a stein of beer, Lorna smiled.

"Grenas tells me Dorian's set to return," she told him; "The Inquisition is over."

"The Inquisitor's mark-less _and_ handless," Fareld smirked.

"But that's not our concern. He defeated Corypheus, but without that mark he'll not pose a threat. Dorian, however, still does."

"That man couldn't even stay loyal when he had no obligations," the child said; "He'll start with the magisterium, but he'll tire of it soon enough. We just have to make sure any problem he poses ends quickly."

Lorna frowned at him. She was a pretty women, with brown hair and pale skin, and a long elegant neck where she had donned her most precious amulet. Her petit shoulders were tense under her cloak – she did not belong in a tavern setting, and if her husband were to find her there she feared he would chastise her for weeks on end. Fareld reckoned if she were a noble, she would never let him forget it.

To dispel any effect she had on him, he took a swig of his drink. Bitter ale filled his mouth and he swallowed, closing his eyes against the burn.

"This isn't as simple as just neutralising him, Fareld. I understand you're upset-"

"I'm not upset," he defended; "I'm furious. But that's not what we're here for. How many times do I have to say it? My family situation doesn't affect my ability to protect the Imperium. I'll cut the throats of a thousand brothers before I let Tevinter fall."

Her expression indicated she wanted to say more, but Lorna thought better of it. Instead, she returned to the subject at hand; Dorian's return and his subsequent appointment to the role of magister.

"No one's certain when or where he'll come in from," she told him; "but it's soon. It's been arranged for you to travel to Minrathous tomorrow."

"So soon?" he said.

"Yes. It's imperative you're there to meet with our recruits."

"We have enough people in Minrathous without me as well."

"There's never enough support," she scolded him; "That said, you have another job to do while you're there. Grenas has told you about Jasper's death, hasn't he?"

"Jasper was an idiot. To do that ritual without an experienced mage with him? Suicide."

"Well, evidently. But it does leave a substantial absence in our Intel. Come, walk with me. Lewis will be furious if I don't return soon."

Fareld and Lorna stood, and after the labourers had scrambled out of their way the pair walked out into the cold winter night. The sky was moonless and the stars were dull, while the streets were filled with noisy drunken revellers or pickpockets filching coin purses. It was a bad area of the city, but Fareld loved it all the same.

"I wasn't even aware Jasper was Intel," he told her as they walked through the narrow stone streets, their heels clacking on the cobblestones.

"He wasn't," she replied; "Not until Margaret died. Before then he was just an apprentice."

"That explains why he did what he did, then. Apprentices always take stupid risks."

"Nevertheless, he was good at Intel. Intercepted messages and found traitors out, made quite the stir when he told Grenas his friend was an Inquisition spy. His death affects us terribly. Our place in Minrathous more or less depended on the intelligence he brought in."

"There are others who will take his place. We don't need people who use dangerous magic without taking the proper precautions. But what does this have to do with me?"

Lorna halted near a dark alley, where she took a moment to glance about and ensure the pair of them were alone. The lights in the narrow, crooked houses were all snuffed out, candles put away and children hurried to bed, while parents stared out of the windows with fearful eyes. Sacrifices were often made of unsuspecting poor-folk.

She led him down the alley. The damp invaded Fareld's lungs and made him want to cough, but he was so focused on Lorna and what she had to say that he forced the urge to the back of his mind.

"You're going to take his place," she told him.

"What?!"

"Grenas wants you in Minrathous and Jasper's space is the only one available. Besides, you've brought in Intel before. With your place as a marksman, information should come easily to you."

"The only Intel I've ever brought in was trivia about the Inquisition!" he protested; "I've never gone out looking for it. This is an entirely different set of rules."

Lorna looked back at him. Even in the darkness of her hood he could tell she was annoyed, and if he could see her eyes he fancied he might have been turned to stone right there and then. But he was too valuable to their cause to kill. His skills as an archer, young or not, were difficult to compete with.

"You'll not argue," she said; "This is what's been ordered, and it's what you'll do. Until Dorian and his influences are neutralised, sacrifices have to be made."

Fareld narrowed his eyes, but he made no argument. Once upon a time, he might have. But things were different now, and with Dorian in their sights he was determined not to stir up rumours.

"Then we're agreed. You'll go to Minrathous and meet with our recruits, and from there you'll meet Dorian."

" _What_?" he exclaimed. Disbelief and rage pooled in his stomach and he saw red in the corners of his eyes, halting for a moment before he stormed up behind Lorna. She must have expected his reaction, for she turned and faced him head-on.

"I'll _meet_ him?" he repeated; "I'll meet the bastard we're trying to kill? In what fresh Hell did _anyone_ think that was a good idea?!"

"It's necessary. Imagine how much Intel we could collect, especially using you. We have a unique opportunity here, and Grenas wants to use it."

"Then why me? Why not someone else? Send a man to sleep with him and we have the same advantage."

"Fareld, don't be ridiculous. How much information can a lover get compared to how much you can?"

He paused, nostrils flaring and brow furrowed. He did not respond, but he knew the answer.

"Precisely," Lorna said; "He'll tell you more. After all, you _are_ his son."

The words cut into him sharper than a sword, and when Lorna started to walk down the alley again Fareld had to resist striking her from behind. His temper would do him no favours at the moment. If he had to meet Dorian for the good of the Imperium, he would have to accept it.

Once they reached the bottom of the alley, Lorna stilled. Fareld paused beside her, looking up to what she was doing – and the moment he did, he was knocked out of the way by a stumbling drunkard.

" _ **Fasta vass!**_ " he spat as he fell.

"Out of my way," the man slurred; "Some of us got places to be."

"But not all of us will reach them."

Lorna's hands appeared from her cloak carrying a silver dagger, and in an instant the drunkard realised his mistake. He stuttered on an apology, but instead he gargled on his own blood as she slashed his throat open and let him fall to the floor.

Fareld sprang to his feet. His hands came out and, with a terrible smirk, he raised one out to the dying man, surrounding him in a halo of red energy and levitating him from the ground.

"We all make mistakes," he growled; "Some are just fatal."

The drunkard's body started to convulse as blood flowed out from his wound. Terrified eyes stared at them, but when Fareld turned his hand towards him and closed it into a fist the blood started to wrap itself around his victim. There was a terrible hiss of acid on skin, and the man's final scream never reached their ears.

In moments, his corpse was reduced to a pile of smouldering ash.

"People have so little respect for the Venatori," Lorna commented as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Come the next few months, that will all change," Fareld replied.

With a final glance at the ashes, the pair moved on.


	2. The Arrival

The carriage arrived in the late evening, and when he clambered inside of it with his fellow marksmen Fareld felt a sense of finality wash over him. He would leave Vyrantium, leave the friendships he had built and cared for, all to meet a man he did not wish to know. Despite his loyalty, he could not help feeling bitter about it.

Beautiful vistas opened up to them as they travelled to Minrathous. He saw countless meadows strewn with flowers, beaten paths winding through dense forests, and animals scampering across endless fields while he stared out of the window. His face was awash with moonlight and his eyes were solemn, for this was either his final journey, or the last journey he made before the Venatori won.

The carriage was full of chatter, but none of the archers shared his mission. Their excitement was matched only by his anxiety, and as he clutched the brass locket around his neck Fareld wondered at the duties Grenas had burdened him with.

"Fareld," said one of the archers – a pleasant man called Dillari; "What's your plan when we reach Minrathous?"

"I have no idea. I assume Nirornor will tell us," he replied.

"I've heard you're the new magister's man," Fenris, the ginger haired man beside Dillari told him; "One of Pavus' new guards. Nirornor put in a good word for you."

"He can do that?"

"He's well-respected over there," Dillari said; "Leader of Minrathous' archers. If he says you're a good marksman, the magisters will believe it. He wants to see you as soon as we're in the city."

"He never told me that. I wasn't told about being Pavus' guard, either."

"Grenas came by and mentioned it. We assumed you knew."

Fareld's eyebrows rose, but he said no more. Grenas' favourable position with the magisters meant he could pull strings – the child just had no idea how he would approach telling Dorian he was his son.

 _Not that he'd ever care,_ he thought to himself as he returned his attention to the window: _Dorian's a coward. I'll tell him I'm his son and he'll run a mile – wait and see, Grenas. You should have sent someone to sleep with him._

There was no question in Fareld's mind that Dorian would believe him. The pair looked too similar. His mother had often told him he had his father's face, his build, his eyes and hair; he was the spitting image of the man, an exact replica, and the few times she had drawn a picture of him the child realised she was right. People called him a handsome boy, but he wished for nothing more than to change it.

"This will be a long journey. Should we tell stories?" asked a young woman, Yanna, as she leant forward to rest her elbows on her knees. There were at least fifteen archers in the carriage, but thankfully it was a large one with comfortable wooden seats and a decent driver.

"I'll tell one," Fenris offered, and then dived head-first into the tale of how he and his brother Jarin came face-to-face with a mother bear as children. Fareld did not pay much attention. He had heard it once before, but he loved how much Jarin's version differed; according to him, Fenris had run away as soon as he caught sight of the beast, while Fenris said his brother was the one who fled.

The thoughts of his mission crept back into his mind. Jasper's job was a difficult one, and if he was to take his place he needed to leak information carefully. Too much and Dorian would figure out it was him. Too little, and Grenas would blast his inadequate contributions.

 _I should be part of the resistance. Front-lines, Qunari territory, southern plains – I don't care, just in a fight. So what if Dorian's my father? What does it matter that I'm_ _ **technically**_ _an Altus? Mother was Laetan before he came along. I should be Laetan too._

There was a bark of laughter to the side that snatched him out of his reverie. Fareld turned his head to see Yanna slap Fenris on the back, telling him something about a 'cold day in Hell.' By the time he turned away again, he noticed there was someone out in the distance.

Fareld's eyes narrowed. He looked closely, and saw that it was a bald elf in the middle of a lonely meadow. He was dressed in a blue outfit with brown furs, holding a staff that appeared to be Ferelden, and as his carriage passed – as _he_ passed – he noticed that he was looking straight at him, following him with his eyes.

"That's weird…" he murmured, which caught Dillari's attention.

"What?" he peered out of the window over his shoulder; "What's weird?"

"There's…there was an elf in the meadow. He was staring at us."

"Elves are strange," Fenris gave a good-natured jostle to their elven friend Mauriel; "All of them. Weird."

"What did he look like?" Mauriel asked, returning the jostle as he brushed his long blond hair out of his eyes.

"Serpentine. Clever. Bald. Not like other elves. Damn it, that was really weird."

"Don't pay it any mind," Fenris told him; "He's probably a southerner here to visit the Imperium. Not a bad time for it, either."

But Fareld could not let it lie. He felt it was an omen, but he could not understand how or why it made him so anxious. For the remainder of the journey he was silent, listening as his friends and fellow archers told stories of their childhood, until finally when they spied the great walls of Minrathous they turned to him. It was now dawn, and over the horizon the first rays of sunlight started to break.

"Well, Fareld," Dillari said; "It's your turn, before we get to Minrathous."

"My turn?" he repeated.

"Tell us a story."

"I don't have any."

"Of course you do. You turned up as a slave from Vol Dorma."

"Vol Dorma was dull," he lied.

"Don't lie to us. Tell us a story, and don't skip on the details."

He sighed, but he could not refuse them. Their way was one of mutual trust; marksmen needed to depend on each other, needed sharp eyes at every turn, and if he did not share a part of himself – even a trivial part like a story – Fareld feared they would later question him.

"Alright," he said; "But it's not my story. It's my mother's."

There was silence in the carriage. Then, smiling, Yanna told him to start.

Fareld took a deep breath. He hated the story – hated it even more than he hated Qunari and the south – but it was hers, and that was enough to tell it.

"Before I was born, my mother met my father," he began; "and she fell madly in love with him. But my father was a cruel man. He took her love and he used her, and planted in her the seed that would eventually become me.

"And then he ran away. He left the Imperium under cover of darkness, leaving her and all of his family behind. He was a noble, so people thought. There was nothing noble about him. When she told her parents, my mother was ousted from her family – she became a slave to survive, scrubbing floors and cooking meals, clawing her way through life with nothing but the shirt on her back. Then she had me.

"I can't tell you how much she cared for me. She made my clothes, she nursed me, she gave me my first bow and told me I could be _anything,_ and no matter what I decided on she would always love me. All through this, she told me my father was a good man. She told me he was conflicted, but not evil. I could never believe her. Even though she was my everything, Mother's love skewed her views. She loved him so much she even named me after him."

Fenris stopped him there. He had been enthralled by the grave tone in which Fareld told his story, but he had one question that could not wait.

"Your father's name was Fareld?" he said.

"No," he replied; "That's my middle name. I use that instead."

"So what _is_ your real name?"

Fareld paused. Ever since his mother had died last summer, he had not heard anyone call him by his first name. It was their secret, their little glance into the past. But since she was gone and he was so close to revealing it anyway, he saw no reason to keep it to himself – besides, the archers were his friends.

"My name is Dorian Fareld Evodius," he told them; "Dorian Pavus is my father."

Silence swept through the carriage again. Yanna stared at him, dumbstruck and wide-eyed, while Mauriel raised an eyebrow and clutched him under his chin. He turned his head from side to side to examine him.

"I met Dorian once," the elf admitted; "A long time ago – ten, fifteen years? Ran into him when he was wandering around the marketplace in Qarinus. Now that I think about it, you're his spitting image."

"Thank you for the reminder. I'll be sure to make a note of it," Fareld scowled.

"So what are you planning to do?" Dillari asked; "We're going to be face-to-face with him soon enough. You must want to tell him."

"If he believes me-"

"Fareld, a blind man would believe you."

" _If_ he believes me," he repeated; "Then I'll go from there. Don't worry. I have a lot of plans for Dorian when we're in Minrathous."

Fareld rested back in his seat. As much as he trusted the archers, he could never tell them the part he played in the Venatori. The group was despised despite wanting to preserve the Imperium, and he would not be the one who blew their entire mission out of the water.

Minrathous was close, and when finally the carriage passed the gates he could hear the bustling city life all around them, louder than Vol Dorma and Vyrantium combined.

"I can hear Nirornor on the walls," Dillari pointed out as he reached for the door handle; "Get ready, archers – it's time for us to make our grand entrance. Excited to see him, Fareld?"

The boy smiled.

"As much as any person is to see their old mentor."

* * *

Dorian's arrival to Minrathous had left him feeling empty. He missed the Inquisition, he missed the Inquisitor – he missed his lover the Iron Bull, especially after he had turned on his own kind to save them. If not for Bryce rescuing the Chargers, Dorian feared Bull's subsequent re-education would have left him liable to betray them all.

But he needed to focus. He would meet his new guard soon, and he had been told from a reliable source that he was to meet someone important; someone he was not expecting. The man who had passed the message on to him was acting on the order of someone named Grenas, apparently a trusted friend of the magisterium.

 _It must be one of my new guards,_ he thought: _But I would expect to meet them. Five minutes in Minrathous and already people are throwing riddles at me._

He was near the gates, where there was a clearing large enough to cope with the city's traffic. Carriages of all shapes and sizes wheeled in and out, carrying everything from nobles to trade materials, before he noticed a fairly large one roll in – and a band of archers pour out of it.

 _The emblems on their arm. Vyrantium. Then what are they doing here?_

There was a shout from the wall. Dorian looked up to see a rather lithe, attractive elf lean over the edge of the walkway, holding a long bow at his side as he smiled down at the new arrivals.

"Dillari! Yanna! Fenris! Mauriel! Where's the scamp?" he called.

One of the men answered by shouting to someone in the carriage – a man he called 'Fareld.' Dorian paid close attention to the archers pouring out. One by one they came, some male, some female, until all in all around fourteen of them were turning and gaping at the beautiful city around them.

Then, he saw him.

The others were tall and at least in early adulthood, but Fareld was no more than a child. He was short enough that his legs dangled over the side of the cart, and when he jumped down he landed with a grunt. But it was not this that made Dorian's heart stutter in his chest.

It was the fact that Fareld was the spitting image of himself.

"Fareld!" called the elf, to which the child looked up and smiled; "It's good to see you, son. How's the eye?"

"Sharp and straight, Nirornor!" he called back.

"There's a good man! Wait there - I'll be down in a moment."

Dorian watched as the boy nodded, then turned to speak with the other archers. Hundreds of questions attacked his mind. Why was such a young child an archer? Why had he travelled from Vyrantium to Minrathous? What was his relationship with Nirornor? But most of all, the key question in the forefront of his mind, was why he looked so much like him.

 _Coincidence,_ he told himself: _I'm sure of it. Perhaps he has some ancient link to my family? It's not unheard of._

Fareld made small talk with his friends, admiring and commenting on the city, when finally Nirornor arrived and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. He turned and dipped his head at him, but his old mentor laughed.

"Really? I think we've known each other far too long for that, Fareld," he chuckled, and then produced a piece of paper from his pocket; "Well then, since you're all here, let me read out your duties in Minrathous. First and foremost, I'm the head marksman here."

"Of course," said Mauriel.

"If there's a problem with one of your colleagues, you'll report it to me. If there's something you think needs my attention, send me a message and I'll see to it as quickly as I can."

"The southerners are coming! The southerners are coming!" Fenris cried out in a theatrical voice.

"Alright, settle down," Nirornor said over the laughter; "Next, your roles. Frinal, Priscilla, Kirikan, Grile and Harris, you're all on the walls with me. Ralis, Taurian, Radonir, Yanna and Brilla, the Archon wants you with the magisterium. Mauriel, Fenris, Dillari, Pollarian and Fareld – you're Magister Pavus' new guards."

The others glanced at Fareld. He made no comment, rather folding his arms across his chest and accepting the news with a solemn frown. Nirornor patted the boy's head with a proud smile.

"Grenas told me earlier that our new magister should be down soon," he said; "He's—oh, hold on. There he is now."

Nirornor turned and bowed in Dorian's direction, respectfully motioning for him to come closer. The other archers around him did the same – all except Fareld, he noticed, who looked at him with a flash of anger in his eyes.

It was the first time the boy had seen his father. He was a handsome, well-groomed man, muscular and with a trimmed moustache, as well as a slightly darker complexion similar to Fareld's own. There was an air of sophistication around him, and the way he carried himself was educated, almost erudite. He approached slowly, his eyes never leaving the child's face.

"Magister Pavus," Nirornor greeted; "Honoured to make your acquaintance. I'm Nirornor, the lead marksman for Minrathous. These are-"

He turned to Dorian's new guards, but then he paused. He stared at Fareld, brow furrowed, and when he looked back at the magister he had to shake his head and look again. There was silence. Dorian stared down at the boy, and Fareld's eyes narrowed as he unfolded his arms.

"Hello, Father," he said; "Surprised?"


	3. Kadan

"I have a _son?_ "

Dorian was talking to Maevaris Tilani, who with a platter of treats and two silver cups of tea hosted her friend in her study. There were large bookcases lining each wall of the room, separated at regular intervals with tables and cushioned chairs, and her wooden wainscoting was decorated with tapestries of ancient history. Her mahogany desk was neat and clear, matching the expensive chair she sat on and the other one she had provided for her guest.

"Are you certain he's telling the truth?" she asked him; "Have you ever even slept with a woman?"

"Once, a long time ago. It was a terrible decision I made when inebriated, and I never repeated it."

"Well, once _is_ enough."

"He wouldn't even look at me after he told me," Dorian paced the room as he spoke; "It's as if he hates me. I have no idea how to go about this."

"He's a child. He's angry, and he has right to be. But children's anger doesn't last. Now that you're here, you can decide if you take on the responsibility of fatherhood."

"Fareld is my son. I can't in good conscience leave him to it. Besides, he's one of my guards – another something I have to bring up with the magisterium. Who allows a child to become a marksman?"

Maevaris poured herself some more tea. She had heard of the child a few times; tales from Vyrantium magisters, mostly, about a boy in the guard with a sharp eye and a swift arrow. Never had she thought she would meet him, or that he was an actual boy and not just a young man.

"He's clearly talented," she said; "but archers aren't a magisterium concern. That needs to change."

"A lot needs to change. I'm hoping Lucerni will bring that about."

"If we push hard enough, it will. Speaking of which, we need to discuss how to present our reforms. It might take your mind off of Fareld for a while."

In Dorian's manor, the archers were on duty. Dillari and Pollarian were at the back of the house, where there were high stone walls bordering a beautiful, well-kept garden and a marble gazebo, and Fenris and Mauriel were at the front door to keep watch for housebreakers. The house was lavish with blue walls and marble floors, the entrance leading to a foyer where there was a centrepiece of a white-stone mage statue and stairs leading to the second floor. The living room was large and decorated with expensive fine wood furniture, and every surface was polished to a healthy shine. It was in here that Dorian had left most of his personal items until he found a better place for them; the crystal he used to contact the Inquisitor, for instance, and the Kadan necklace he shared with Iron Bull.

On his routine 'patrol' through the manor, Fareld discovered them.

He was not ignorant of Qunari culture. He knew his enemy well, and Grenas himself had once complimented him on his extensive knowledge of the Qun. From the Tamassrans to the Ben-Hassrath, to the Arvaarad and the Antaam, Fareld had studied it all. He even knew about the treatment of the Saarebas under Qun law, and it sickened him.

So when he found the dragon's tooth necklace nestled behind one of Dorian's files, he knew exactly what it was.

"That sick Qunari-loving _fuck_!" he shouted as he threw at the sofa beside him. He could hear footsteps racing from the foyer to where he was, and when Mauriel rushed into the room he stared at Fareld with shocked eyes.

"What are you doing?!" he asked.

"That bastard is a traitor," Fareld told him; "Look at this – it's a Necklace of the Kadan."

"What does that mean?" asked Fenris from behind the elf. He edged into the room with a raised eyebrow, glancing between Fareld and the necklace as he did.

"A Necklace of the Kadan is a tradition for Qunari lovers," he explained through gritted teeth; "There's no marriage in the Qun, so instead they give each other these – 'so no matter how far apart life takes us, we'll always be together.' If Dorian has this, that means he either stole it from a Qunari or, more likely, he's been sleeping with one."

"Let me see."

Mauriel held out his hand, and despite not wanting to touch it again Fareld picked it up and gave it to him. The elf inspected the necklace with narrowed eyes, turning it over as if it were something to be studied.

"What's it made out of?" Fenris asked as he looked over Mauriel's shoulder.

"Half a dragon's tooth," Fareld replied; "I have no idea why. Probably because they think they're descended from them."

"It's odd that you know all this, Fareld," he took the necklace from his friend so he could examine it more closely. The tooth had been polished, he noticed, and the chain was an expensive one.

"Know thy enemy," the child growled.

"Why were you even going through Pavus' things?"

Fareld turned his gaze to Mauriel, and in the split second he did not have an answer he feared he had doomed himself. But when he saw neither of them were suspicious, just curious, the boy relaxed.

"I fell against the table," he lied; "Tripped over the sofa leg. It moved the file the necklace was behind."

"Strange. But, this isn't illegal in the Imperium. We're not part of the Qun: Magister Pavus can choose who he sleeps with himself, Qunari or not."

Fenris returned it to the boy. Fareld wanted to spit on it, but instead he turned and put it in the place he had found it, moving the file so that it covered the charm up again. He could tell Grenas Dorian had been in a relationship with a Qunari, at least. The Venatori would be very interested in that.

"Still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth," he mumbled to himself.

"Come on," said Mauriel; "It's time we switched with Dill and Pollarian. Fen, you're on patrol."

"Great! My legs are stiff from all that standing around."

Dorian and Maevaris hashed out the reforms' finer details, and once the pair had agreed on them the mage sat back in his seat. He felt better when he was doing something proactive. But he could not shake Fareld from his mind, and Maevaris offered her friend a sympathetic smile when she saw the expression on his face.

"Perhaps a dinner?" she suggested.

"Pardon me?" Dorian said.

"Have Fareld come to dinner with you. If you both meet in a calm setting, perhaps he'll be more willing to talk."

"I don't know, Mae. It's all very up in the air right now. Damn it, if Bull were here, he'd know what to do."

"The choice is yours, Dorian," she said; "Either you can invite Fareld to dinner and see what happens, or you can wait and try to figure him out. But whatever you decide, tread carefully. There are rumours of a Venatori resurgence in the works."

Dorian sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Dead fathers, long lost children, Venatori – when will it end?" he asked.

"I have no idea. What I do know is that the Venatori are a menace. We need to wipe them out once and for all."

"Well," said Dorian, propping his head up with his hand; "At least that's something everyone can agree on."

Fareld and Mauriel were on the wall, looking out at the luxurious street where Dorian's manor was situated. There was a respectable distance between each of the gardens and every family had their own guards, but when the nobles were not out on the road or in their homes the soldiers and archers smiled and waved at each other. The road was cobbled and every now and then horses and their riders would travel down it, sometimes with attached carts that carried returning Altus.

"How are you doing, Fareld?"

The child looked up at his friend. His brow furrowed, and when he did not reply Mauriel explained.

"This past year's been hard on you. After your mum and now with Dorian…it's got to be tough. I just wanted to know if you're alright."

Fareld's face softened and he nodded, and for a moment he wished he could tell Mauriel what he had planned. He had no idea if the elf would be disgusted over what he was – he supposed so – but he could not risk it.

"I'll be alright," he told him; "The Qunari-lover's not my concern. We keep him alive, that's all I need to do. Other than that, I'm fine."

Mauriel reached out and patted the boy's shoulder.

"Hey, we're always here for you. Archers need to stick together."

Fareld held his bow up, and gesturing to a nearby tree he challenged Mauriel to target practice. The elf accepted with a smirk. The child loved the other marksmen, but if it meant he would eventually bring Dorian down his loyalty laid with the Venatori. His father would pay for his crimes against Tevinter.

He would pay for leaving Fareld and his mother behind.


	4. Invitation

The guards' quarters was a simple room that catered to their basic needs. There was a separate bathroom with a toilet, bath and sink, and the place was large enough that Fareld and the other archers could fit their beds and a few personal items inside. It was not lavishly decorated, but there were a couple of paintings on the walls and a table behind the door, as well as a rack for them to put their weapons on.

Fareld had finished his shift at noon, and as he was the only one there he sat quietly on his bed, staring at the wall. Dorian's relationship with the Qunari still angered him. He had hated the man before, but to know that he was sleeping with Tevinter's sworn enemy was enough to ignite a fresh flame of fury in his stomach.

"That's it," Fenris announced when he came inside, opening the door with a triumphant shout and throwing his cloak on a bed near the window; "Another day done. I almost feel sorry for the others."

"We have to switch with them at three," the child replied.

"Don't remind me. Do you know how much you'll see in the garden at three am? Here's a hint – not much."

The man threw himself on to his bed, brushing his red hair out of his eyes and humming an old tune as he removed his heavy guard boots. While he did this, he started to update Fareld on the household news.

"The maids came across Dorian's necklace today," he told him; "Asked what it was, and we made something up about an Inquisition ritual. Cook's not happy about it, but what can you do? Oh, and get this – the magisters are worried about Venatori spies."

Fareld's ears pricked up and he turned his head. His eyes narrowed as he looked at his friend, but since Fenris was turned away from him he could not read his facial expression.

"No one's mentioned anything," he ventured.

"I heard him talking to that crystal when I was on patrol. 'A Venatori resurgence,' he called it."

"Do you believe it?"

"Here? In Minrathous? The place that led the _revolution_ against Venatori?" Fenris turned to him, and with relief Fareld realised he was smiling; "I doubt we've got a problem. A spy or two, maybe, but no one high up enough to leak anything useful."

"Who was Pavus even talking to? It's an Imperium concern." Fareld's eyes darkened; "I bet it was that Qunari."

"Nope – the Inquisitor himself."

"Oh, so the 'Herald of Andraste.' Wonderful."

"He might not be divine, but he got rid of the Breach and Corypheus," Fenris reminded him, then went on; "But seems our magister's still friends with Trevelyan. Maybe he'll invite him up here one day."

"If he does, I hope he realises our orders don't extend to false Heralds."

"Our orders extend to whatever Dorian tells us to do."

Fareld fell back on his bed, reaching up underneath his pillow with a heavy sigh. He could not deny that the Inquisitor had rid them of a problem, even if the Venatori had supported Corypheus. But he had no desire to meet the man, especially with his Chantry affiliations – the boy was no Andrastian, and he believed vehemently that Andraste had not ascended to Demi-Godhood in death. The woman on the Sunburst Throne was an imposter.

"He mentioned you."

Fareld did not reply.

"The Inquisitor sounded surprised."

"Exactly how long were you listening for?"

"I heard a bit," he replied, moving until he faced the boy; "He thinks you're clever."

"I'll be sure to put it on my resume."

"A sharp shot, too."

"Of course I am. You could have told me that, and you're an idiot."

"Ouch!"

"The truth hurts," he sat up and smiled; "Not as much as that arrow you shot at the neighbour's cat, though."

"That was an accident."

"She was _furious_. The butler promised he'd have your hide for making him deal with that."

"Please, compared to him we do all the work around here. He sometimes has to serve Dorian tea and occasionally deals with angry, cat-loving neighbours. If he wants my hide, he's going to have to learn how to skin it first."

The pair laughed, and when Fareld looked at Fenris again he was smiling. Then Fenris' smile slowly dropped and his tone turned sincere, patting the boy's shoulder as if to comfort him.

"He's planning on talking to you. Dorian, I mean," he said.

"I'm not about to discuss anything with him."

"I think you should hear him out. Not because he deserves it, but because you do."

Fareld rolled his eyes and stood up. He could not sit and listen to another lot of 'helpful advice,' no matter how concerned his friends were. Instead, he went to the rack where he kept his bow, and when he had picked it up he clutched the door handle and turned back to Fenris.

"Pavus is my father, not my parent," he told him; "He's a Qunari-loving degenerate, and if he thinks for a _moment_ I'm going to sit there and listen to him, after all he's done? That's his problem, not mine."

The child left. Their room was located in the loft of the house, and as he kneeled in the small corridor to push the ladder down, Fareld distracted himself with the thought of reports he needed to send to Grenas. Encrypted letters and demands would be sent to him by dove under the name 'Lorely,' and as time passed in the manor he realised he had very little that his contacts would find useful.

 _I'll have to be careful_ , he told himself: _I'll tell them about the necklace, but nothing more. That should be enough to interest them, at least._

Fareld climbed down the ladder and into the 'hidden hall.' It was a part of the house that guests would never see; the servants' chambers and their washrooms, and even a small kitchen at the very end of the corridor. It was sparsely decorated, but one of the maids liked to keep flowers on the corner table.

 _Flower's wilting. I should pick another one in the garden._

But as he approached the door that led out into the upstairs hallway, someone else opened it on the other side. Fareld took a step back, expecting one of the archers to have come to check on them, but he frowned when he saw Dorian.

"There you are," the mage said to his son; "The others said you weren't on duty."

The child did not reply. Instead he stared at him, eyes narrowed and one hand hovering over his weapon. He fancied a blast of magic would have been more effective – but until the time was right, he would not reveal he was a mage.

"I want you to come to dinner tonight. I feel we have a lot to talk about."

"We have nothing to talk about."

Dorian frowned and folded his arms. Fareld thought he saw a fleeting trace of hurt in his eyes, but it vanished as soon as it had appeared.

"Nevertheless, I'll be waiting in the dining room at eight. Feel free to join me, if you've a mind."

Before Fareld could rebuke him or even reply, the man turned on his heel and vanished out the door. He heard his footsteps fading away as he walked off, leaving the child to glare after him.

 _Grenas would want me to go_ , he thought: _I can get more Intel if I do. That's all that matters. For the Venatori._

With a steadying sigh, Fareld left the hidden hallway.


	5. Dining with Knives

Dinner was fast approaching, and despite his usual confidence Dorian felt out of his depth. He had no idea if Fareld would even turn up – the boy was wary at the best of times – but the table was set regardless, with candles lit in a silver candelabrum and the good plates down, as well as little blue and white napkins folded into swans and flowers. The mage wondered if it was all necessary, but he wanted to demonstrate the lengths he was willing to go for his son.

There was a small brown package near Fareld's seat. It had been sent by Dorian's mother in Qarinus; a Pavus amulet, newly engraved by their own craftsman, and Aquinea had added a letter that said she wanted to meet her grandson 'as soon as feasibly possible.' Dorian dreaded how he would tell her Fareld had renounced his Pavus lineage, but, that was a problem for another day.

A knock at the door caught his attention. The mage had been checking his hair in the dining room mirror when he heard it, and when he called for them to enter the butler came in looking quite confused.

"Sir, there's an elf at the front door. He claims you have business together."

"An elf?" Dorian repeated; "The only person I have business with tonight is Fareld. Tell him to come back tomorrow."

"He told me it was urgent."

"Did he say his name?"

"Yes, sir. He calls himself Solas."

Dorian's head jerked back. Of all the people he could have expected at his door – Tilani, House representatives, couriers, his mother – Solas was the last person on that list. The very fact he was in the Imperium was enough to worry the mage, let alone that he had come to see him explicitly.

"Send him to my office," he ordered with a wave of his hand; "and if Fareld comes downstairs, tell him I'll be late to dinner."

"Of course, sir."

The butler left. Dorian went to his office, which was located near the living room behind a locked door, and tidied away some of his more 'delicate' documents. He thought for a moment that some of them had moved from where he'd left them, but he reminded himself that the room was only accessible to himself and his guards.

A hundred questions went through his mind. He and Solas had never much agreed on political matters – his countrymen's use of spirits and blood magic repulsed the elf – but their friendship had stayed reasonably firm during the Inquisition. Why had he come to Minrathous to find him – him, of all people?

Solas' last meeting with the Inquisitor had warned them of his plans. Dorian was wary, but he had no reason to believe he was in danger; the elf was not prone to random fits of violence, and he believed his desire to reform Tevinter had put him in Solas' good graces.

The office tidied, he heard a knock at the door. The magister called for them to enter, and as the butler strode in Dorian's eyes went straight to Solas. He seemed comfortable, dressed in blue robes and brown furs, but when he saw Dorian he acknowledged his surprise with a nod and a small smile.

"His honourable Magister Pavus," the butler announced.

"My friend," said Solas, folding his hands neatly in front of him; "It's good to see you."

"You can leave us." Dorian told his servant.

He hesitated, but then the butler bowed and took his leave. Once he was outside of the room he decided to find the guards, and hurrying out to the foyer he found Fareld walking down the stairs with his bow, apparently heading for the dining room.

"Magister Pavus says he'll be late for dinner," he informed the child before he could reach the floor. Fareld's eyes narrowed.

"Of course he will. What's wrong? Did Tilani turn up with 'important reforms?'" he said.

"He has a visitor. An elf."

"An elf?" he repeated, and then with a furrowed brow said; "Bald? Blue robes with brown furs?"

"Yes, that's him. Do you know him?"

"No…no, I don't. Where is he now?"

"He's with Magister Pavus in his office. I was just about to send some guards-"

"I'll go. I have my bow with me anyway. Thanks, Gerard."

Fareld did not allow him time to argue. He had reached the bottom of the stairs and was half-way across the foyer before he had even finished talking, and Gerard did not want to reprimand him - he was the magister's son, after all.

Once he had come to the office door, the child stood outside to listen. He could hear faint conversation, but it was not loud enough that he could make out any words.

"Please, sit down," said Dorian as he gestured to a spare seat; "I trust you've had a long journey. Unless you've perfected teleportation as well as Fade wandering."

"I'm fine, thank you. I came here for a reason."

"Naturally."

"Listen well, Dorian. The Venatori are preparing to unleash chaos on Tevinter."

"Yes, I know. The entire magisterium is trying to weed out potential spies."

"I've heard from reliable sources that they're targeting the reformers," he went on; "You, specifically."

"I'd imagine a lot of people want to see me dead for what I'm doing. Tevinter needs to evolve if it wants to remain relevant in the modern world. There's only so much we can gain from chasing shadows. But both I and the magisterium know this. Why did you come all the way here to warn me?"

Solas fell silent for a moment, pacing the room with his hands behind his back. The office was suitably decorated, with long white curtains and blue walls, and bookcases that were filled with tomes. Most were academic, but he saw a few that were more storybook than encyclopaedia.

"The Venatori pose a threat to all Thedas," he told him; "Their ideals are rooted in slavery, elven submission and, most importantly, the use of blood magic. Right now, their main source of influence is through bribery. If they were to succeed in eliminating you and Tilani, other magisters might pledge their support in order to protect themselves."

"Supremacists are known to be rather temperamental," Dorian noted, crossing his arms.

"A group that actively supported Corypheus should be eradicated by all means necessary. I myself have come because—there's someone listening."

Solas turned towards the door, where he thought he had heard scuffling. Dorian frowned and called out for the person to come in.

Hesitating, Fareld opened the door.

Under the weight of their gazes, the child almost felt small. He held his head up high and stalked in, a hand on his bow as he passed Solas and fixed him with a suspicious glare, and stopped when he stood between him and Dorian.

"Fareld?" said the mage; "I thought I told Gerard-"

"He sent for guards," he interrupted. Fareld did not take his eyes from Solas when he spoke.

"Fareld?" the elf said; "An interesting name for an Imperium boy."

The child did not reply, but instead his eyes narrowed even more and he almost edged away from him. Solas' presence unnerved him, that much was clear.

"Who might this be?" he asked Dorian, meeting Fareld's glare with a good-natured smile. He could not help but feel there was more to that smile, as if it were hiding something.

"This is Fareld, my son," he explained.

"Your son?" the elf repeated, surprised.

"One of the guards," the boy told him with a meaningful nod to his bow. He did not appear threatening – he was small, young, and seemed overly wary – but Solas could sense an underlying energy about him, a spark of magic that he had honed and hidden away.

 _But why?_ He wondered.

"Very well," said the elf; "I've taken up enough of your time. Perhaps you and I can meet again in private, Dorian. We have much to discuss."

"I look forward to it."

He and the magister made to leave, but the moment they had stepped outside the office and went towards the foyer a flash of silver caught their eye. Fareld was behind them with his hand still on his bow, so when they paused for that split second, he almost crashed into them.

"What's-" he said, but was cut off by Dorian's shout.

"Look out!"

The mage moved as though to block Solas from an attack, but the elf's quick reflexes had already launched him backwards and away from the blow. Fareld leapt forward out of instinct, and in that moment he felt something slash at his shoulder and slice open his skin.

" _ **Kaffas**_!" he hissed, but before the blade could come down on him again he had grabbed the attacker's wrist and, with a burst of sudden strength, turned it inwards. He felt weak resistance as steel went through flesh, then the warm, wet flow of blood spurt on his face as he drove the knife deeper in.

Fareld did not hesitate. He had control of the weapon, and with one swipe he ripped it through the assailant's soft stomach and pulled it free, holding it in one hand to let the blood drip on the floor. His free hand twitched – he was about to reach forward and use that blood for a spell, but he remembered his company just in time and stopped himself.

The attacker gargled. In the rush Fareld had not looked up, and he was almost afraid to. Mustering up his courage, he raised his eyes to see a familiar face stare back at him – and in his surprise, he let the dripping knife clatter to the floor.

"Pollarian!" was all he could whisper.

The archer fell to his knees. He had been disembowelled, and not even the most skilled healer could have saved him. There was a look of ultimate betrayal in his eyes as he collapsed, clutching at his wound as if he could heal it, before each of his twitching limbs stilled and he laid there, dead, in a pool of his own blood.

"Pollarian!" Fareld muttered again and fell to the floor beside him; "No! No, no, no, no!"

Dorian and Solas stared dumfounded for a moment, then Dorian recovered some of his wits and put his hand on his son's uninjured shoulder, trying to pull him away.

"Fareld, come away from there," he urged; "Fareld, please-"

"What did you do, Pollarian? What the Hell did you do?!" he shouted and started to shake the dead man; "Maker damn it, you idiot!"

"Guards!" Solas called as he went into the foyer, where some of the archers were now appearing to see what the commotion was. Dorian tried to pull his son from the floor, but Fareld started to frantically search Pollarian's pockets instead.

Once he found a folded piece of paper in a hidden pouch, the child unfolded it and scanned through:

 _Pollarian; -_

 _Do what you must in order to stop them. Your mission requires patience and finesse, so do not fail us. We will not tolerate another botched job – your life depends on it._

 _Write back once it is done. For the glorious Imperium!_

 _H_

He lowered the letter in shock. His face was white as he stared at the lifeless archer, and he did not even realise that he was kneeling in his blood.

"Pollarian was Venatori…?" he murmured.

"Fareld!"

He did not look up at Dillari's voice, too shocked to even register it when the man fell beside him. Dillari stared at the dead man as if he could not believe it, and when Mauriel ran in from the foyer he skidded to a halt, almost too stunned to tell Dorian the situation was in hand.

"What happened?" Dillari asked; "Fareld, what happened?"

"He…he just came at us. I didn't even see…"

"That's enough," said Mauriel; "Dill, no more. Someone find Fenris. Damn it, how did this happen?"

Solas watched as the archers stared sadly at Pollarian, Mauriel with his hands on his hips and Dillari shaking his head beside Fareld. The child looked down at his bloody clothes, but he was too dazed to react to them.

"Fareld," said Dorian; "Let's have someone look at that shoulder."

"He was just right _there_ …"

"Fareld," he said again; "Come."

The child hesitated for a moment more. Then, with a sigh, he obeyed his father's command.


	6. Aftermath

Dorian spent the night in his office, overseeing the clean-up and monitoring his son's care. His healer had promised he would make a full recovery – he was young and resilient, a finely built boy – but the mage worried it was his mind, not his body that had taken the brunt of the damage.

"Tonight was a disaster," he said to Gerard as he poured himself a glass of whiskey; "An absolute disaster. It couldn't have gone worse if I'd tried. How could this have happened?"

"Venatori are difficult to weed out, sir, but with Pollarian dead we hope no more will bother us. Nirornor has been notified."

"How is my son?"

"He's recovering, sir," the butler replied.

"Recovering? He just disembowelled one of his friends. There's no recovering from that."

There was silence for a moment. Gerard was unsure if he should continue, and he only did so when Dorian shot him a sharp look. The mage took a sip of his drink as he listened, trying to calm his frayed nerves.

"I'm told he should be able to use his bow again in a few days. If you want to see him, sir, he's with Dillari in the living room."

"Is there anything he needs? Elfroot, embrium? Some prophet's laurel?"

"No, sir. The healer assures me our supplies are enough to deal with him."

Dorian nodded and set his glass aside. In the hall that led to his office he could see his cleaning staff; the maids were all tired and terrified, cautious that another archer would turn on them as they worked, while the other servants passed them fresh buckets and mops to deal with the mess. Pollarian's corpse had been moved to a safe place – Nirornor would take him after their meeting, he was told, and inform his family of his deceit.

 _Deceit?_ He thought scornfully: _He could have killed my son. This was treason, plain and simple. No Venatori should be allowed citizenship. No Venatori should be allowed the respect of a proper burial._

"Did Solas mention when he plans to come back?" he asked as he looked out at the pink sky, the orange rays of dawn-light reaching out and chasing away the moon. No doubt word of Pollarian's death would have spread all over Minrathous come noontime.

"He told us he'll return after he's dealt with some important business, sir. He refused to say what that business was."

Dorian shook his head. He was in no mood for secrets.

"At least this is over with," he sighed; "Now we can focus ourselves on the aftermath. No doubt the magisterium will be eager to uncover more Venatori."

Gerard nodded and, after he was dismissed, bowed to the mage as he left the room. Even in times of great stress, he kept an upright and proper attitude. Aquinea had been right in hiring him for her son's manor.

Fareld had not spoken since the incident, and so as the healer went about his care she referred her questions to Dillari, who sat on a chair opposite them. He answered her as best he could – no, he did not believe Pollarian's knife was poisoned, no, there was no chance it was enchanted, no, he had not meant to kill the boy – but there were some questions he stammered on, and these the wise redhead saved for Dorian.

"Here," she smiled as she handed Fareld a cup; "Drink this. The elfroot will ease the pain."

The child held it in his hands for a long while. His eyes were vacant, and as the seconds passed she wondered if he had heard her. Then, finally, he drank. His nose wrinkled as soon as the potion washed over his tongue, which made her softly chuckle.

"This is vile."

"But it works. That's all that matters."

"All the power in the world and we still can't invent a potion that tastes like cherries."

"You don't like cherries, Fareld," Dillari said.

"It would still taste better than this."

He twisted the cup in his hands as the healer examined his wound. It was not a deep cut; it would sting and bother him for a few days, but she was confident that with the proper care it would not cause him any long-term issues.

"You were lucky," she told him; "If he had driven the knife a few inches deeper, I would need to stitch the wound."

Fareld stared at her. She knew immediately that she had said something wrong, but instead of rebuking her or even shouting, the child nodded, unwilling to spend more energy than he already had.

"I don't believe this," said Dillari, standing from his chair to pace the room; "Pollarian was our friend. We trained with him, we practically grew up together. How could he have turned his back on us?"

"Radicalism and treason live in all people's hearts. Some of us act on it, while others choose to mediate themselves and see beyond their own suffering. Your friend was corrupted, but that doesn't mean you failed him."

Dillari turned to her and Fareld, and with a shake of his head he asked him how he was feeling. It was a long time before he replied, and even then his tone was hesitant.

"Confused. He was right _there_ , Dill. He just…came at us. He came at _me._ "

"But he won't do it again."

Dorian's voice caught them by surprise, and if the healer were not examining his cut Fareld would have sprung to his feet. The magister came in to see his son had not changed from his bloody clothes – it would leave a stain on the sofa, but he hardly cared.

"Sir," said Dillari, moving to bow, but Dorian waved a hand at him to stop.

"I think we can skip the formalities for tonight," he said; "It's hardly as if these are normal circumstances."

"Yes, sir."

"How is the cut?" he asked the healer.

"It should heal within the week," she told him, standing with a smile; "He's a strong boy. Unless it becomes infected, which with the proper care it shouldn't, he can use his bow in a few days."

"A few days?" Fareld exclaimed; "That's ridiculous. I can use it now. It doesn't hurt."

Dillari stepped forward and put his hand on the child's uninjured shoulder. If he was Mauriel, he fancied Fareld would not have glared up at him.

"Take it as it is – paid time off. Maker knows you need it after all this."

"That's it, then? I accidentally kill Pollarian, and now you're happy to let me lose my bow?"

"No," said Dorian; "That's not what this is. If the healer says you need to rest, then you'll rest. That's an order."

The child made as though to argue, but then he thought better of it. He could not refuse a direct order from the mage; Grenas would hear of it, he was certain, and then he would be chastised for 'unduly raising suspicion.'

 _But he was the one who never told me Pollarian was a spy as well!_

"Fine," said Fareld through gritted teeth; "I'll do as you command, Magister Pavus."

The venom in his words did not escape Dorian's notice. For a split second the mage wished he had Bull at his side – at least he would have been able to figure out where Pollarian's loyalty laid, and then the whole situation could have been avoided.

"Nirornor will be here soon. It's late. Rest in here for now," he said to both Dillari and Fareld; "When he arrives, I'll wake you."

The mention of Nirornor made Fareld's blood run cold. How would he face him after killing another archer? How would he face his Venatori contacts and explain to them what had happened?

 _None of this would have happened if I was told_ , he thought as Dorian and the healer left and he laid down on the sofa, Dillari claiming the chair: _Grenas, whoever you send has a lot to explain for._


	7. Tevinter Loyalties

Fareld's injury was catered to and cared for. He was offered a separate room to sleep in, which he denied, and Dorian sent out for a new bow design with special, poison-tipped arrows; he wanted to make it the standard for all of his archers.

Nirornor saw him the day after Pollarian's death, and though he was officially there to speak to Dorian the archer made excuses to see his former apprentice.

"That's a small wound, at least," he said as the pair of them sat in the manor's living room. The sofa had since been removed – bloodstains were out of fashion, Fenris had joked – and there were plastic covers over the chairs Fareld and Nirornor sat on, but other than that it was much the same as it had been when Pollarian was alive.

"Small enough," he agreed quietly.

"I'm proud of you," the elf leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands in front of him; "Not many could have done what you did. We thought Pollarian was a friend. But remember this, Fareld; any man who allies himself with that cult is a traitor, through and through."

"A traitor kills his countrymen. _I_ was the one who killed him."

"Trust me, Fareld – had you hesitated, I've no doubt he would have turned that knife on you."

The child fell silent. Nirornor saw a flickering doubt in his eyes, a subtle hint that he was not fully convinced, but when he went to reassure him the living room door opened and Dorian strode into the room. The elf sprung to his feet to meet him, though Fareld did not even look up to his father's eyes. The mage glanced at him with a concerned frown. He could not comfort him at the moment, but he told himself he would find the time later – _if_ his son allowed it.

"Nirornor," he said with his hands folded neatly at his waist; "I trust the moving went well?"

"It did, sir. Pollarian's family have been notified."

"Good. I'd rather not hear another word about it, but it does leave a rather pressing question: How many more could there be in your ranks?"

"Sir, Pollarian was fairly new to the archers and Vyrantium has a high number of Venatori supporters. I've personally trained with the others in my team, and I assure you their loyalty is unwavering."

Nirornor's conviction surprised Dorian. He had no quiver in his eye, no subtle inflection to his voice that said he could be lying; he truly believed Pollarian's betrayal was a one-off.

Without an immediate response, the mage paced the room for a moment and thought. Nirornor watched him, and on the chair Fareld's brow furrowed, hiding the growing seed of guilt in his stomach. He had to convince Nirornor he was not a Venatori – it was for the good of the mission, and by extension, the archers.

 _That Qunari-lover would have us all stripped of our Imperium pride._

"The problem is, Nirornor, I don't know them as well as you do," Dorian finally said after a long while of silence; "and so I'm not as willing to trust them. As far as I'm concerned, the fact that all of my guards are from Vyrantium is just another reason to be hyper-vigilant. How do I know the Venatori haven't planted other spies in the house?"

"That would be stupid!" said Fareld as he sprung to his feet, holding his shoulder when a sharp stab of pain ran through it. It immediately caught his father's attention, but the child went on before he could say anything. "Anyone who plants more than one spy in a house is risking twice as much if they're caught."

Nirornor rested his hand on Fareld's shoulder for silence, but Dorian waved to let him continue. His son's insight was valuable; if nothing else, he could at least try to learn how his mind worked.

"It's a clever strategy," said the elf with a frown; "and one that's used a lot, Fareld. How can you be so certain that's not the case this time?"

"How many Venatori are left? Hundreds? Most are in Vyrantium, and nearly all of them hold no political power. To risk more than one spy would be cutting the numbers down even more."

He hoped his argument was convincing, for Fareld was correct. The Venatori still in Tevinter were so few, he personally knew over half of the organisation's members. Those he did not know – people out in wars and on the borders, preparing to infiltrate the cities once the heat had died down – were not many, though he had heard tell from Grenas that their support was still strong.

 _But Grenas has lied before._

"That's true…" Nirornor cautiously replied; "The Venatori's numbers are down. But that doesn't mean they're not a threat, especially not to you, Magister Pavus."

"I've dealt with more than my fair share of Venatori. I don't want to risk my life and the lives of my friends without express reason to. Unless you can prove to me your archers are trustworthy, I'll have to contact my own support."

Fareld and the elf fell silent and stared puzzled at Dorian. Neither of them had been told that he had extra support and ever since he had been stationed in the manor – which had not been a long time – the child had not come across documents that hinted at an outside defence.

 _Even the notes in his office didn't say anything about it,_ he thought to himself: _Is he bluffing?_

"Your own support, sir?"

"Yes, my own. Lord Trevelyan has promised me the Inquisition's help should I ever need it. I just have to send him a message and he'll station men here to lend a hand."

The child's subsequent shout of _'what'_ surprised the men around him. Fareld's mouth was a harsh frown across his face as he stepped towards Dorian, uncertain if he could face both him and the Inquisition and still keep the Venatori's delicate plan in motion.

"You can't!" he spluttered; "The Inquisition is over. Your Inquisitor has no power here!"

"Trevelyan has resources and followers who support him even after the Inquisition. The Inner Circle will jump to help him if he needs it. But, first of all – Nirornor. I won't do this unless I see no other option. Can you assure me without a shadow of a doubt that the other archers are loyal?"

The elf met Dorian's eyes. He nodded, but he knew it would not be enough. The mage had already decided what he would do; asking him again was just a polite formality.

"Nevertheless, I'll send word out and have another guard posted here," he turned away from them and went to the door.

"Sir!" Nirornor called out before he could vanish through it; "I'll need to assign another archer here in Pollarian's place. It's regulation."

"Who do you have in mind?"

"A woman named Yanna. She and Fareld trained together some time ago in Vyrantium. He can vouch for her."

Dorian turned his head to look at his son. It occurred to him that Fareld's mood had darkened; his eyes seemed stormy and sullen, and he wondered why he was so adamant that the Inquisition should not come to his aid.

 _Probably believes the Imperium's telling of Andraste,_ he thought: _He won't trust the Inquisitor. Perhaps I should speak to him about that. Maker knows he needs a fresh perspective._

"Can you, Fareld?" he asked.

The child was silent for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he offered a reluctant nod.

"She's one of the best shots in Tevinter," he admitted.

"Fine," Dorian forced a smile, though he did not want another archer assigned to his manor for fear of wavering loyalties; "Send her here. The sooner she settles in, the sooner we can put this behind us."

"Of course, sir."

The magister turned to leave again, this time with Nirornor respectfully following to detail Yanna's new appointment, but he paused. Dorian looked at his son once more, rifling through the pockets of his fine red and white silk robes.

"I almost forgot," he said as he searched; "This came for you today. It's from someone called 'Lorely.'" He pulled out a crumpled letter without a stamp, crudely written and with many misspellings and ink blots, which he passed to Fareld with a genuine smile. "If you need paper to reply, there's some in the library."

The child's heart raced as Nirornor and the mage said their farewells and left. The moment he could, he closed the door and hurried to the table, where he tore open the top of the envelope and read through the 'encrypted' message.

 _Dear Fareld;_

 _Have you ever seen the dancers sing, and the cracked bells chime over tattered spring, and the fountains pour over lion heads cold, and the spot with the flowers that the old pellar sold?_

 _Love,_

 _Lorely._

 _That's not encrypted,_ he thought with a frown: _That's a riddle. And not a hard one. The fountain, the bells, the dancers – it's the Vivazzi Plaza, and the pellar must be that old man we heard about who sold flowers there for fifty years._

He put the letter in his hand and crumpled it. He knew what it meant. Grenas was sending for him. He was to meet a Venatori contact at the Vivazzi Plaza, and explain why he had killed Pollarian.

In the back of his mind, he wondered how he was going to tell them that the Inquisition was coming.


	8. The Marble Men

In the Vivazzi Plaza, Fareld sat in the beautiful gardens and made himself comfortable. He was on a marble bench just across from the spot where the old pellar had sold his flowers, and as the nobles passed and noticed him he did his best to stare at the neat flowerbeds and topiary animals, or the fountain that poured a constant stream of water over the marble lion heads.

There was a collection of white stone statues placed at regular intervals that were either famous mages or depictions of violent battle scenes. Fareld had occupied himself with reading the plaques, though he knew most of the history behind them; Archon Darinius, the founder and first Archon of the Imperium, who had successfully allied them with the dwarves and united Tevinter and Qarinus; Thalsian, the first of all magisters, the First Priest of Dumat and the original wielder of blood magic; the death of Archdemon Dumat at the hands of the Grey Wardens; the twenty year civil war that broke out after two magisters fought for the vacant Archon's throne in 620 TE; Divine Valhail, the first divine of the Imperial Chantry; and little excerpts here and there of the Black and Exalted Age conflicts, and later on the assaults that led to current hostilities with the Qunari.

 _Seheron needs to return to our control,_ the child thought as he read: _The Qunari_ _ **chain**_ _their mages! Leash them like dogs! It's an insult to their power. It's an insult to magic itself._

The Vivazzi Plaza was a beautiful place to be, and in it Fareld reflected on Pollarian's death. His shoulder still stung and he was not yet allowed to hold his bow, but no one had confiscated the knife he had holstered to his belt. It was a small comfort as he ran his fingertip along the sleek steel blade.

 _Pollarian was one of us. He was an archer, he was a friend. And_ _ **I**_ _killed him. To save Dorian! I saved Dorian and killed one of my own. How am I supposed to live with myself after that?_

Fareld had no idea. He still wondered how he would tell the contact that his father had sent for Inquisition help – soon enough the entire Inner Circle would be with them, and perhaps even more. The Inquisitor himself had promised it. The very thought of sharing a manor with the False Herald was enough to infuriate him, but the child steeled himself. He had a mission. If he followed his orders, he would soon be able to eliminate Dorian; and that was all he cared about.

"Now, Dorian, remember," he could almost hear his mother say; "Patience is a virtue. We clean today so that tomorrow, we have a little more coin to spend. We save so that in a week, we can afford something new. Hard work and patience will see you through life, my little arrow."

 _But I killed Pollarian. I can never wash that blood off my hands…_

The ever-important question wandered through his mind – would his friend have killed him if he had hesitated?

"What are you waiting for?"

The voice surprised him, but after initially starting the boy realised what he had been asked. A man had sat down beside him; he was dressed in noble clothes and held a flower in his hand, smelling it with his eyes closed and a content smile.

"The rise of the glorious Imperium."

"We heard the news," said the stranger; "Pollarian's death was…unexpected, to say the least."

"I didn't mean to kill him. It happened so fast, I hardly had a chance to-"

"Don't worry yourself. Grenas is pleased."

" _What_?" Fareld's brow furrowed and he stared hard at the man's face, which he suddenly realised he recognised. He was a praesumptor that he and the other archers had had dealings with before; a thief who slipped in and out of personas as easily as he did clothes, and could effect a range of accents that surprised and fooled people in equal measure.

"Pollarian's death was a shame, but the fact _you_ killed him has made Dorian trust you. He isn't suspicious of you. And with your being his son, he'll be more willing to pass on information – information we can use."

"But…Pollarian was one of us."

"Yes, and his sacrifice will be remembered."

"This…how do you even know all this? I haven't passed it on," said Fareld.

"It's the talk of the town, Fareld. We would need to be deaf and dumb not to have heard about it," the man stroked the petals of his flower and looked out at the statues before them. He had never once looked at the child, Fareld noticed, and correcting himself he turned his eyes to the street, watching as a noblewoman passed with a crumby-mouthed child at her side. The entire conversation had left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he could not let the contact leave empty-handed.

"I have more," he said; "Dorian's involved with someone. Romantically, I mean."

"Do you know who it is?"

"No. I know _what_ it is, though," his eyes darkened; "A Qunari. I found a Necklace of the Kadan in the manor."

"A Qunari? Well, that's unexpected. But very useful; were that information to get out…"

"That one will have to wait. Some of the other archers saw me find it – if the rumour starts too soon, they'll know I was the one who leaked it."

"I suppose that would damage your position," his companion nodded; "But if we can't use it yet, then when?"

"Soon. The Inquisition is on its way – the entire Inner Circle, in fact."

This time it was the stranger's turn to balk.

" _What?_ "

"Dorian sent for them after Pollarian died," Fareld explained; "A Venatori note was found on him. He won't trust Nirornor when he says there aren't any more spies in his guard, and the Inquisitor's agreed to come and protect him."

The child left out the fact that he had been the one to discover the note. It was Pollarian's own fault it had been found – each and every one of the Venatori had been told not to carry incriminating evidence on them. If he had chosen to ignore that order, that was on his head, not Fareld's.

 _Though a dead man doesn't worry about unfollowed orders,_ he thought with a frown.

"That's not good news," said the thief; "The Inquisitor and his Inner Circle will complicate things. Grenas will not be happy to hear this."

Fareld held his tongue on the scathing remark that came to mind. Grenas was pleased that Pollarian had died, but this would upset him?

 _He's the political side of the Venatori,_ he reminded himself in an effort to control his temper: _The cause cared about Pollarian._

"I'll be sure to pass this on as soon as possible," the stranger stood and dusted down his clothes for invisible dirt; "Do care for that wound, won't you? We can't afford to lose another spy."

Fareld did not reply, and he made sure not to watch as his companion left the gardens. The great bell of the Vivazzi Plaza chimed, and with a sigh the child realised he needed to return; the others would grow worried if he stayed out too long.

So, as he took one more sweeping look at the gardens, he stood and hurried out to the streets.

The manor was quiet when he returned. Fareld used his key to open the door and, stepping softly inside, he did a quick scan of the foyer to make sure no one was around.

 _Good_ , he thought as he scurried to the stairs: _I don't need another—_

"Fareld!"

Dorian's voice reached him before he could put his foot on the first step, and though he toyed with the idea of acting as if he hadn't heard him he instead turned and scowled at the man. He was returning from a trip to Minrathous' library; he had a bag full of books on his shoulder, and the thought occurred to Fareld that he must have sped up to catch him.

"There you are," he said as he approached, a hand wrapped around his bag strap; "Where have you been?"

"The Vivazzi Plaza," he answered honestly.

"Why were you there?"

"The dancers."

"Ah, yes. I should try and see them before we leave," Dorian moved into the foyer and closed the door behind him, locking it as he did.

"Leave?" Fareld repeated.

"For Qarinus. Once Tilani and I are finished proposing our reforms, we'll be returning there – all of us," he added with a meaningful nod towards his son.

The child did not respond immediately. The news had shocked him. Grenas had never mentioned another transfer; but now that he thought about it, Fareld realised that it was a logical move on Dorian's part.

 _It makes sense_ , he thought to himself: _Aquinea is in Qarinus, as is all of Dorian's inheritance. His seat in the magisterium is technically based there. But…another move…?_

"That's a stupid idea," Fareld spluttered; "The Venatori will attack you on the roads."

"We're just as vulnerable here as we are out there. Not to mention we'll have the Circle with us when we're travelling," Dorian moved forward to stand in front of his son, frowning when Fareld stepped on the stairs to put some distance between them; "We'll be safe."

"The Inner Circle have no idea what the Imperium's layout is. Their presence alone will attract attention, and if you move to Qarinus then you might as well put a target on your carriage and call it aiming practice."

"It's been decided, Fareld. I'll not argue about it," Dorian said. His voice was firm and resolute, and even though he wanted to Fareld could see no point in arguing. It would only extend their conversation.

"Very well," he murmured and turned to go upstairs.

"Wait," his father said; "I have something to tell you. It's…it's important you hear it before the Inquisitor arrives."

Fareld faced him again, one hand clutching the banister, and with a furrowed brow he noticed Dorian's expression had changed. It was almost apprehensive.

"What?" he asked.

"There's someone in the Inner Circle I want you to meet. A particular someone. He's, well – he's important to me."

Fareld's heart stuttered when he realised who Dorian meant. It was the Qunari – the Qunari he was sleeping with, the inherent enemy of the Imperium.

 _He wants me to meet that blue-skinned bastard?_

"I want you two to meet, and I want you to get along. It would mean the world to me if you did."

"As your guard I'm sworn to protect you and your guests. And _that's it_ ," Fareld said pointedly.

"Fareld-"

"I have to take my potion," he cut in, then turned and hurried up the stairs before his father could stop him. Dorian could only watch as he disappeared down towards the hidden hallway, where no doubt he would ignore his potion and busy himself with his bow.

 _That could have gone better,_ the mage thought as he walked slowly towards his office: _Venhedis, how am I going to introduce him to Bull? He's hardly the Imperium's idea of the perfect man._

The mage unlocked the office door and stepped inside, putting his bag down on the desk with a sad shake of his head. He was nervous as it was with the Iron Bull coming to Tevinter; it would no doubt hurt his reforms, and the people's rife racism would put the warrior in danger the moment he stepped across the borders. If the pair even alluded to having feelings for each other, the backlash would be tremendous.

 _We'll have to keep it a secret. It shouldn't be too hard, provided Bull doesn't get drunk and go blathering to someone he shouldn't._

He sat down heavily in his chair and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The entire situation was giving him a headache, and the Inner Circle had yet to even arrive. Determined to stave off his approaching migraine, Dorian picked up one of the books and started to read.

Fareld fell against the wall of the hidden hallway when he stepped inside, pressing his back against it as he fought to control his temper.

 _He wants me to 'get along' with that Qunari fucker? Does he think I'm an idiot? The bastard would stab me in the back if I turned around too long._

The child's mind turned to his mission. Once the Inner Circle were with them, it would take all of his skill to go about it. Tensions were high, and with his wound and guilt over Pollarian's death he needed no more reason to doubt himself.

 _I'll go and tend to my bow,_ he decided, moving to the ladder that led to the guards' quarters: _I hope Fenris isn't on his shift._


	9. The Finest Circle

Fareld had no idea when the Inquisition were coming, but after two weeks – one of those spent without his faithful bow – Mauriel announced that Dorian had started preparations for their arrival.

The servants were set to work. The guest rooms were tidied and the bathrooms scrubbed, and all available furniture was polished until shining. Guards were ordered to follow a much stricter schedule when it came to patrols; no more idle wandering in and out of rooms, but instead a set path that ensured their guests' privacy remained uninvaded. This irritated Fareld to no end.

 _I have no patrols near the office!_ He thought when he scanned through his new routes: _How am I supposed to find out information now?_

It occurred to him that perhaps Dorian had changed his route because he was suspicious, but he discarded the thought almost immediately. He still had an important section of the house in his patrol; the guest wing, a wide hallway near the front of the manor that had blue walls and beautiful marble busts, and several portraits of Pavus ancestors mounted throughout. In a political sense, it was the mansion's focal point. It would not have been given to a potential spy.

Tevinter etiquette dictated that proper preparations for house guests started a week in advance, and so Fareld concluded that the Inquisitor and his Inner Circle were to arrive the following Wednesday. That morning he was in the foyer with Fenris, and Dillari and Mauriel were on special orders not to stray far from the back door. Yanna, who had arrived a few days after Pollarian's death, was confined to her patrol route.

"There's something exciting about this," Fenris mentioned when he and the other archers were eating their dinner. The servants' dining hall was a touch more modest than the main one; with no hanging chandelier or large mirror over a brick fireplace, it instead had a cauldron over a simple kitchen fire, a long, splintered table where Fareld and his friends sat, and no decorations on the wall other than occasional wall hooks where they were meant to put their weapons. Their bows rested on the long bench beside them, ready if there was an emergency.

"Exciting? They're going to make us a target."

"We were already a target, Yanna," Mauriel pointed out; "Every Altus house is. But we're sworn to protect Dorian, and the Inner Circle won't stop us doing that."

"The Venatori are going to be at our door every day, trying to slip a spy inside."

"They did already. But Pollarian's gone now."

Fareld fell quiet after that, and Yanna dropped the subject.

The day came when the Circle were due to arrive. The house was a hive of activity. Fareld awoke to the sound of Gerard yelling for the maids to sweep invisible specks of dirt from the mantelpieces, and on his only patrol of the day he came across more than one servant shaking with nerves. The cook was grappling with a complicated meal plan while Dorian made sure all of his preparations were in place – including the new poison-tipped arrows for the archers.

When the knock at the door came, the manor was ready.

Fareld and the other marksmen were in the foyer about to change shifts when Gerard ran to the door and prepared himself. Dorian came in, dressed in fine silk clothes with his hair groomed to perfection, and nodded to his butler when he stepped in front of the entrance.

"Let them in," he said.

Gerard took one more steadying breath and opened the door.

"Dorian?" came a voice from outside, and in the archway leading to the living room the archers stood in a line, some half-turned from the front door, others facing it fully, all waiting to catch their first glimpse of the dread Inquisitor.

"Bryce Trevelyan," Dorian grinned from ear to ear as he welcomed the man in a good-natured hug; "I've almost missed seeing you every day. And the rest of you, even Vivienne."

Trevelyan stepped into the foyer, and Fareld and his friends were presented with their first sight of the man behind the legend.

He looked like a regular man. For a moment, Fareld was surprised. He had brown hair in a modest haircut and a good quality grey outfit on, occasionally studded with silver buttons, and in his green eyes the child thought he saw a spark of wisdom. But then there was his left arm, or lack thereof. He was handless, and with a wane smile he remembered that the Inquisitor had lost it along with his mark.

 _The Inquisitor's mark-less_ _ **and**_ _handless,_ he remembered himself saying.

"Come in, come in," Dorian said to the people behind him; "Come on – you're not usually this reluctant."

The rest of the Circle followed suit. There was a dwarf with red hair and a red shirt that followed the Inquisitor, carrying a beautiful crossbow with an odd design that all the marksmen immediately took notice of. Following him was a blonde elf – another archer – and a demure, pale man with a large hat on, as well as a belt where he had holstered two impressive daggers. A mean-looking woman with a scar across her cheek followed him dressed all in black, equipped with a shield and a sword, her sharp eyes glancing all around the foyer as though to find weakness in it. With her came a heavily bearded man; Fareld knew this one as he was a fan of the Grey Wardens, so when he saw Thom Rainier his eyes narrowed.

 _False Heralds with False Wardens,_ he thought.

Vivienne was another he knew. She was a graceful woman with an elegant neck, but her face seemed condescending – beautiful, but cold. Then there was Ser Cullen Rutherford, a handsome ex-Templar, wearing an outfit with a furred scarf of some sort, and with him came Josephine Montilyet of an Antivan merchant household, the once-ambassador of the Inquisition.

Then, in stepped the Iron Bull.

He was a beast of a Qunari, standing at a huge seven feet and rippling with muscle underneath his blue skin. His horns were pointed upwards like two demonic spires and his harness was weathered in places, not large enough to cover the age-old scars that littered his chest and shoulders. His very presence was loud and boisterous. The child's frown deepened when Bull caught sight of him.

Fareld and the other archers drew their daggers. The metallic noise caught Dorian's attention, and with a frown and his hands on his hips he cast them reprimanding glances. No one sheathed their blades. The marksmen did not even attempt to hide their distrust of the warrior.

"An impressive manor, Dorian," said Cullen to dispel the tension in the air; "but I thought your seat was based in Qarinus?"

"It is. We'll be moving there once I've finished with my reform proposals. If you think this place is impressive, wait until you see my actual manor."

"Dorian, is this…?"

Bryce's voice trailed off, leaving his sentence hanging in the air. He made a vague gesture towards the archers, and Dorian nodded.

"Yes," he said; "These are my guards-"

The marksmen fell to one knee in a sign of respect, their daggers placed horizontal to their chests. Fareld was slower to follow them, and even when he did his eyes were burning with scorn and distrust.

"—and this is Fareld. He's…my son."

"Looks just like you," the Iron Bull commented. His voice was deep and imposing; if he shouted, the child imagined even the windows would rattle in their panes.

" _Son?_ " Cassandra balked; "You have a son? You?"

"It was a surprise to me as well."

"A handsome boy," said Josephine with a smile and approached him, holding out her hand for him to take it; "Hello. My name is Josephine Montilyet."

Dorian gestured for the archers to stand, and when they did Fareld took her proffered hand, dipping his head slightly in a show of respect. His locket fell out from his collar and caught her eye, but he quickly shoved it back inside his shirt.

"Sir, the archers need to return to their shifts," Gerard hesitantly said in his most proper accent; "May I show the guests to their rooms?"

"Yes, that would be best," Dorian agreed.

"Shifts? Your son's not part of the guard, is he?" Cullen laughed, but when the mage did not correct him the smile slowly dropped from his face, his brow furrowing in confusion. "He _is_?"

"Fareld is an accomplished member of our guard, sir," the butler informed him with a polite smile; "Trained by Nirornor, Minrathous' head marksman."

"But he's-"

"He stopped a Venatori spy from killing magister Pavus," Mauriel interrupted, though his tone was respectful; "Fareld is an integral part of our team."

Cullen appeared conflicted, but he made no more arguments. Instead the commander looked at Dorian and nodded, rolling his shoulders to dispel his misgivings.

Fareld watched his father closely as he and the others started to move to their positions. The mage and the Iron Bull had spared each other glances, but when he thought no one was looking Dorian fixed him with a wistful smile, and even went as far as to touch his arm when he went past. All the child had to do was wait until they were 'caught' in the act; then he could tell Grenas that the rumour could be spread, and no one would be able to link it to him.

But seeing the Qunari for the first time made him nervous. He had had the occasional dealings with them in the past – Vol Dorma had once been attacked by a small caravan when he was an infant, and a revolt of Qun prisoners in Vyrantium had let him see first-hand the destruction they could cause.

"I'll show you all to your rooms. Follow me, please," Gerard said as he went past the Circle and towards the stairs. The Iron Bull lingered behind so that he and Dorian could exchange conspiratorial smiles, then hurried after the rest of his friends.

Fenris turned to him when all had left the foyer.

"Did you see the size of that guy?" he asked; "He was _enormous._ "

"Seven feet of Qunari trouble," said Fareld.

"We'll keep our eye on him, like Mauriel said. Hey, smile. At least it's not raining."

Fareld stared at him and fought to keep his face straight. But soon he laughed and shook his head, turning to the foyer as he gave his friend's shoulder a good-natured shove.

"We're inside, Fen."


	10. Better Friends

Part of the Circle reconvened in Dorian's later that afternoon. The others would join them soon, but there was unpacking to be done – and Vivienne had brought a small village's worth of clothes with her. The sun was coming down over Minrathous' horizon, setting aflame the glass windows and fountain streams, as the last of the birds and bees started their final aimless flights of the day. At a glance it seemed as if the entire sky had turned amber, and as he stared out of the window Dorian sighed, sipping a tumbler full of scotch.

Behind him, his friends sat in patient silence. The Iron Bull watched as his lover warred with himself while beside him Cole rocked back and forth on a stall, unused to his surroundings. Damien, Cullen and Josephine were standing at various points in the room, with the commander near the war tapestries and the Inquisitor leaning against the desk, and Josephine by the bookshelves closest to Dorian.

"He's a boy," the mage finally muttered as he sipped, though he did not turn to face them; "He's a boy, and he had to disembowel one of his friends."

"What?" murmured Cole.

"Start from the beginning," Damien said; "What happened?"

Fareld had finished his shift in the foyer and was about to abscond up the stairs when he heard his name called by one of the maids. He turned to see her, a rail-thin woman of twenty years and with a modest demeanour, hurrying up to him with an urgency in her step.

"Fareld!" she said; "Do you know where the absinthe is? Mauriel took it out for a wound, but he says he doesn't know who had it last!"

"Absinthe? What in the Hell do you need absinthe for?"

"Magister Pavus' drinks!" she replied, dramatically throwing her hands up in the air; "But if we can't find it, we'll have to find something else for the guests! This is horrible! He was _very_ specific about having Mayhem on the table!"

The child squinted and tried to recall the rooms of the house. If absinthe was found anywhere but in the kitchen, it would have been moved to the drinks cabinet in the living room – but if she was searching for it, it was clear it was no longer in the manor. He would have left her to her task, but when he looked up into her eyes and saw the worry festering there, his conscience got the better of him.

"Rum," he said.

"What?"

"Do we have rum?"

"Well, yes, but what's that-"

"Rum, fruit liqueurs and a dash of lime juice. It's fruity, but it has a good kick."

"Magister Pavus said that Qunari would drink nothing but Mayhem and beer."

"We have to work with what we've got. The Qunari isn't our problem. Strawberry, blueberry and cherry liqueurs are the best – if you can mix them properly, no one will complain that it's not Mayhem."

"I have no idea what happened. One minute I was walking out of my office with Solas, and the next…" Dorian sighed and shook his head; "I saw the knife before I saw him. I tried to block it, but Solas had launched himself backwards and into me. Then Fareld jumped and just…turned Pollarian's knife on himself. As if he'd done it a hundred times before."

He took a large gulp of his drink. He could feel his hands trembling as he replayed that moment in his head.

"Fareld was hurt. A cut to the shoulder. But it didn't even slow him down. He'd sliced clean through Pollarian's stomach – no healer could have saved him. He was _covered_ in blood; it was everywhere, on the walls, on the floor, in his clothes, on his hands, and he just…stood there. Stood there without even wiping his face."

"Did he not feel _anything_ once he saw who it was?" Josephine asked.

"Oh, he was distraught. He kept shouting 'What did you do, Pollarian? What the Hell did you do?' and shaking him, and he was just as surprised as everyone else when he found that note in his pocket. But don't you see? He never had a problem with the fact he killed someone. It was the fact he killed _Pollarian._ How much death must he have seen for it to not even faze him anymore?"

Fareld and the cook were in the kitchen, where the child was standing on his tiptoes on a chair so he could sift through one of the cupboards.

"I have the liqueurs," said the cook, a man called Tilarus, who had short cropped hair and a permanent five o'clock shadow on his face. He set the bottles down on the countertop. "What else do we need? Rum? That's here."

"Lime juice," replied Fareld.

"How did you learn this?"

"There was a mage in Vyrantium – you've probably heard of him, went by the name Calixo – who used to mix potions into drinks to give them more of a bite. He taught me some basic ones when I was training near his shop."

"Vyrantium mages have odd hobbies," Tilarus said as he returned to his work. The kitchen was spacious and warm, with one wall dominated by the wood fire and the middle of the room taken up by an 'ingredients table.' There were small spots on the flagstone floor where water or flour had been spilt, but other than that it was well-swept and clean, with only the occasional ember smouldering near the fireplace, leaving their ghosts on the wood-smoked area just beyond the grate.

"No more so than Minrathous'," replied Fareld, clambering down from the chair; "Do you have any embrium?"

"The healers might. Why?"

"It can be used in hot drinks to help clear sinuses. I was hoping we'd have some."

"Do you need it?"

"No. But with winter on its way, we might soon. Put an order in for some."

"Gerard will do it. I have far too much on my mind with the Inquisition here."

Tilarus turned around to focus on the drinks, and with a final check for embrium Fareld left the room. He went up the curled staircase that led to the hall and disappeared to the foyer, where he climbed the last flight of stairs to the hidden hallway.

 _Should have told Tilarus that the Good Tevinter needs spider venom,_ he thought as he went: _At least then none of the Circle would talk._

"This entire place could be crawling with Venatori and we'd have no idea," Cullen pointed out, stepping aimlessly about the room with his hands folded neatly together in front of him; "Our best bet is to send word to Leliana. Perhaps she can help us."

"Leliana has enough on her plate with the new Divine. What makes you think she'll come here?" Dorian asked.

"She wants to see the Venatori destroyed just as much as we do. Besides, this is the final stretch. A few spies won't hinder her too much, and they'll give us forewarning if we're going to be attacked."

"I hope you're right," the mage sighed as he set his glass down; "This entire situation is a nightmare."

"We're prepared to stand by you, Dorian. When Solas comes back, we'll all be here to find out what he wants."

"Thank you, Bryce. This means a lot to me."

"Let's look over your reforms," suggested Josephine with a sweep of her arm; "We'll smooth over any kinks that the magisters might take issue with. Wording is key."

Dorian smiled. If not for the looming matter of properly introducing the Iron Bull to Fareld, he would have felt completely at ease.

 _That can be dealt with at dinner. Maker, I pray this goes well._


	11. Nightfall

Nightfall came and changed the mood of the house. Bryce watched as the archers on duty filled up on arrows, loading quivers upon quivers full of them, before setting off on their routes with hardly a word. Faces hardened and attitudes transformed. The moon rose, and with it came a sense of dread and silence, as if everyone in the manor was listening.

Listening, and waiting.

"Gerard," said Dorian to his butler when he caught sight of him in the halls; "Have you seen Fareld?"

"Fareld? I saw him going to his room, sir, but that was about an hour ago."

"Send for him. I want him at dinner tonight."

"Of course, sir. If he's stepped out?"

"Find him. No one has permission to leave the manor tonight. Especially not my son."

Gerard nodded and left for the stairs, which he hurried up to reach the hidden hallway. The door was difficult to find – he had his own quarters nearer the kitchen so he was easily on hand – but soon he found the handle set inside the wall and turned it. The door opened, and when he saw what laid beyond it the butler wrinkled his nose.

The hall was long and narrow, with just enough room for one person to comfortably walk down it. There was a corner table on the left side with a slim-necked vase and a single flower, giving a splash of colour to the otherwise colourless servants' realm, and at the very end there was a sliver of light seeping out from a crack in a splintered door.

 _That must be the kitchen,_ he thought as he fumbled his way forward: _The maids eat here on their breaks, if I remember rightly. What an abysmal little place to live._

"Fareld?" he called when he was a few steps in, not wanting to venture too far and miss the guard's room; "Fareld, are you upstairs?"

There was a thump above him. Gerard folded his arms and waited, until finally the loft door opened and a shadowed face peered down. It was silhouetted against an orange, flickering light.

"What?" the boy said.

"Magister Pavus wants to see you."

"I'm not on duty. One of the others can help him."

"He asked for you specifically. He wants you at dinner."

"With the Circle?" Fareld reached down and pushed something Gerard could not see. He jumped when a ladder smashed to the floor in front of him, though he had recovered his wits by the time the child had climbed down.

"Yes, with the Circe," he said, wiping down his front for dust.

"I don't need to be there," he replied; "Again, have one of the on-duty guards take care of it. I'm going for a walk."

"No one's permitted outside tonight. Are you refusing a direct order, Fareld? If you are, I'll have to report it to Nirornor. I won't tolerate dissent in the ranks. Especially after Pollarian."

Fareld glared at him but said no more. The butler folded his hands together and glanced around the hall with disgust, then turned on his heel to leave.

"Don't keep him waiting," he warned once over his shoulder. Then he was gone, leaving behind him an annoyed and frustrated Fareld.

"I wouldn't dream of it." He muttered to himself.

Dorian was tempted to fetch his son himself. Tilarus had sent someone to inform him dinner would be served shortly, and since he had sent Gerard to his quarters he had seen neither hide nor hair of either of them.

 _Fareld's followed all of my orders before,_ he reminded himself as he watched the moon inch imperceptibly higher into the sky: _I just have to wait. Maker, I have a son with a tongue as sharp as mine and no respect for authority. Mother always warned me…_

The amulet was on the table in front of him. Beside it was a letter. Aquinea was tiring with the wait; she wanted to see her grandson and indoctrinate him into Altus life, as she was certain Dorian would teach him only the etiquette and not the beliefs. She was correct, of course, and Dorian had no intention of letting her do differently. Fareld was his son, after all.

There was a knock at the door. Dorian's head shot up and he immediately rose from his seat, calling for whoever was behind it to come in.

When it opened to reveal the Iron Bull, the mage's shoulders slumped.

"Bull!" he sighed.

"Expecting someone else?" he asked as he ambled inside and closed the door behind him.

"Fareld. He was supposed to be here by now."

"If he's like you, he'll be 'fashionably late.'" The warrior strolled up to Dorian's side and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. For a moment the man embraced it, smiling and wrapping an arm around his lover's waist with a squeeze, but then his face fell and he turned to stare at the shadows behind them.

"He won't be happy about this, you know."

"About what?"

"Don't play dumb. Fareld is an Imperium boy. He hates Qunaris with a passion."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Do you mind? I haven't the slightest clue how to tell my son the person I'm happiest with is the person he hates most, and here you are making sarcastic comments."

"Relax, Dorian – it'll be fine," Bull moved behind him and wrapped his arms around the mage's waist, smiling into his neck; "I've got every faith in you."

For a moment the pair did not move, content be with each other after several long months apart, as Dorian sighed and the Iron Bull kissed the back of his neck.

Then the door opened.

"Magister Pav—fuck!"

Fareld rolled across the floor the second he saw the Qunari, pulling out his bow to kneel and take aim with one fluid motion. The couple span around in surprise, only to be faced with a pointed, poisoned arrow tip. The boy closed one of his eyes as he trained his sights on Bull.

"Don't move!" he warned; "Don't move a muscle."

"Fareld, put the bow down," Dorian commanded. There was an ever-so-slight quiver in his voice, but so focused was he that Fareld did not notice it.

"I won't be helpless in front of a fucking Qunari!" he spat; "Move a muscle and I'll put an arrow through your last eye, degenerate!"

Bull stood still. He could see the pure hatred in Fareld's eyes, heard the venom in his voice, and there was no doubt in his mind that if he moved the boy would make good on his promise.

"Fareld, put the bow down! That's an order!"

"An order that'll get us all killed!"

"For Maker's sake, put the bow down! I love him!"

Fareld paused. Dorian realised what he had said just seconds after he said it, but as he drew back to take in the shock he saw no surprise in his son's face, just a wary frown and carefully guarded eyes.

"You knew…" said the Iron Bull, slowly dropping his hands.

The child said nothing. He started to rise from where he was kneeling, his bow still aimed, but the intent to use it had left his posture.

"How did you know?" demanded Dorian; "Tell me, Fareld! How did you find out?"

There was a pause. Then, without breaking eye contact with Bull, Fareld returned his bow to his back.

"The Necklace of the Kadan," he said.

"My necklace…?" The mage felt his chest for it. The dragon's tooth was still there, ready to comfort him when he needed it. "When?"

"Before Pollarian."

"How come you never mentioned it?" Bull's voice was suspicious and hinted at aggression. It took all of Fareld's willpower not to reach for his bow again, though he took a protective stance against him and touched the pommel of his dagger.

There was a knock on the door. The mage turned and saw his butler standing there with a nervous look on his face, clearing his throat to catch their attention. In all the fervour, he had not even noticed the door was left open.

"Sir?" he said; "Dinner's ready."

"We'll be there in a moment," he replied, then after Gerard had nodded and left he said; "Come on. We'll deal with this later."

There was another pause. Fareld was the first to turn and leave the room, glancing over his shoulder every now and then to ensure Bull would not leap forward and kill him. His relative silence after the news was baffling. Dorian was sure he would at least have a snide remark to make about his love life, or how under the Qun Bull would be the one holding his leash.

"That wasn't what I wanted at all," he sighed and shook his head; "Come on. The others will be waiting for us."


	12. Lonely Dark

Cole could see the darkness surrounding Fareld.

He could feel the magic thrumming in his veins, saw it in the air around him, but it was black; and sometimes he thought he caught a flash of crimson, like blood lapping against tar before being engulfed. The child sat across from him with his eyes cast down, and his food went largely untouched.

"One of our spy-traps was tripped a few days ago," Dorian said as he sipped his drink; "We searched for the person responsible, but we couldn't find them; only blood."

"Blood is better than missing valuables," Cullen pointed out.

"They shan't return after that. To be injured in the same house twice would be mortifying."

"Dorian, what is this?" Bryce admired the cup in his hand with a smile, holding it up to the candlelight; "It's delicious."

"My cook calls it 'The Good Tevinter.' It's a mix of liqueurs, rum, and lime juice."

"Fruity." said the Iron Bull.

"But quite tart," Josephine added; "I'll have to add it to my cook's recipes in Antiva. My parents would simply love it."

Cole felt a warm glow from Fareld, but when he turned his head to see the boy he had not looked up from his plate. In that moment, he saw someone – a fleeting glimpse of a feminine face, long copper hair shining in the sunlight and surrounded by white light, dancing away from him as though beckoning him somewhere.

" _Come with me, Dorian!"_ a sweet voice rang in his head as the image faded; " _Follow me!"_

The face disappeared, and in its place a dark, cold emptiness rose, swallowing the glow that had surrounded Fareld until he was completely silent. The whole event had taken no more than five seconds, and no one had noticed it except the spirit and the boy.

Dorian watched as his son picked at his food, quiet and reserved without even a glance at his guests. Fareld's joints were rigid as if poised for attack; and the fact he had his bow at his side did not do much to calm his nerves.

 _This entire situation is a mess,_ thought the mage as he ignored the conversation to watch him: _I wanted to tell him before he had a chance to see us. I_ _ **needed**_ _to. How am I supposed to help him see through the Imperium's lies now?_

There was a soft, timid hum that permeated the air. Cole could hear it faintly over the conversation – a word murmured over and over again, pulling him further down into the deep abyss of fear and madness.

 _Maleficar…Maleficar…Maleficar…_

"Fareld, how long have you been an archer?" asked Josephine. Her voice caught the boy off guard, and for a moment all he could do was stare at her, as though struck dumb by her smile.

"Since I was three," he replied quietly.

"No one can shoot arrows that young," Cullen pointed out.

"That's when I got my bow. I learnt later on." Fareld's gaze darkened as he lowered his head to murmur to himself in Tevene; " _ **But Ferelden men prefer to shelter their children rather than raise them strong.**_ "

"Who bought you the bow?"

"My mother."

"Where even is your mum?" Dorian's eyes shot up to Sera, who so far had said not a word; "She's not here or we would've seen her."

Fareld was silent. He stared at the elf, wondering whether she was purposely antagonising him or was simply tactless, when a move from his father caught his eye. The mage had gestured for Sera to stop.

But his son did not want to be spoken for.

"She died," he stated matter-of-factly; "Last summer, when the blossoms were falling from the trees."

"I'm sorry. It must have been difficult," Josephine's eyes were soft and genuine, to the point where Fareld had to summon up the will to hate her. She was a part of the Circle. Her finesse in politics had crippled the Venatori's war efforts, and a lot of their defeat was on her shoulders.

"What did she have?" the Inquisitor asked. For a moment Fareld considered not answering, but one sadistic part of him wanted them to hear – wanted them to listen and remember when he was standing over their crippled bodies, watching the light die from their eyes, that he had watched his mother die the same way.

"A wasting sickness. The healers couldn't help her. After a few days it became a matter of waiting, hoping she would pass peacefully in the night."

He shook his head.

"Days turned into weeks, and she still held on. By the end she couldn't even open her eyes. But she kept breathing, kept whispering this one word over and over again as if it meant something to her."

Dorian clasped his hands together. He had wondered how Mari had died, but felt it too sore a subject to ask about. Even as he spoke, it seemed Fareld had slipped into his own little world – he looked at none of them, staring out at the dancing flame of a candle as though lost.

"What did she say?" Cole asked.

There was a pause. Then, as if he had just heard him, Fareld muttered:

"Arrow." The child's brow furrowed; "And I have no idea why she kept saying it."

The silence that followed was uneasy, and as he returned to his meal the child wondered if he had weakened his position in the house. The thought soon passed when he realised he was too emotionally drained to care.

 _It's a short story,_ he thought, picking at his food: _Why do I always feel tired after I tell it?_

The story was well-known among the archers; Mauriel had been at his side the morning after his mother passed, and Fenris and Dillari had moved her coffin for cremation. He remembered that morning as if it was yesterday. Her grave was marked with a modest little headstone in a patch of overgrown grass, paid for by her then-employer, and the only ones who had attended the service was the priest, Fareld, the archers, and 'an old friend' Fareld had never seen before.

 _No more of this!_ He chastised himself: _No more thinking about it! Remember your mission. Mother's gone, but the Imperium isn't – I can still save it!_

Fareld shook his head. An air of melancholy had settled over him, so thick that Cole had to stop himself from reaching over and trying to console him.

 _I have to save it._


	13. Tales of an Archer

"Squirrel!"

Fareld turned his head to Mauriel's whisper, catching sight of it near the garden's largest tree. It had red fur and a tail that curled once near the base, soft-furred pointed ears; a devil-creature, he thought with a smile, as he started to load an arrow into his bow.

"Ten silvers say I can hit it," he said, taking aim.

"Ten? For that shot? I'd say five – we're not novices here."

The squirrel pawed at the hardened ground, its ears swivelling madly left and right, but not looking at the wall where the archers were standing. For one moment, Fareld saw a little life in front of him, full of experiences and instincts and memories; and then he saw a target alone.

"Fenris would take the bet," he drew the string back; "Are you sure about five?"

Mauriel crossed his arms with an amused side-look at his friend.

"Five."

The arrow was released. It shot through the air and made a whizzing sound as it went, closing the distance between them and the squirrel in nanoseconds. By the time it had looked up, it was all over.

"Bullseye!" cheered Fareld, pointing at his kill while evaluating, with an enthused shout; "Look at that! Right through the head! Clean kill, hardly any blood!"

"Nice shot," Mauriel patted his head; "A few more squirrels and we could feed the entire team."

"Tilarus wouldn't be pleased. 'Skinning things is for the abattoirs – I'm a cook for a reason!'"

"Tilarus would do better in a salon than he would in a kitchen. A little bit of blood never hurt anyone."

Fareld turned to the sound of Yanna's voice, and smiling Mauriel reached down and offered her his hand, pulling her up until she stood beside them on the wall. She took a moment to peer at their neighbours' defences. To their left she saw a young child staring out from large bay windows, watching as though he thought they would turn their arrows towards him and open fire, and to their right a group of noble teenagers wearing silks and furs walked down the road, their noses high in the air with an undeserved sense of entitlement about them.

"It's so quiet here," she murmured, reaching up and over her shoulder to stroke the tip of her bow; "Less to do."

"It's a charmed life we lead. Some people would kill to be in our position."

"Some people have," Fareld murmured.

Mauriel frowned, but Yanna spoke before he could comfort the boy.

"I thought there'd be more trouble with the Inquisition here – especially that Qunari. But no. Nothing."

"Everyone's poised for Solas' return," Fareld said, folding his arms across his chest as he turned to face the road; "When he comes back, it won't be peaceful – we can count on that."

"Fareld, has anyone ever told you that you're the most optimistic person they know?"

"He's always been a realist," Mauriel ruffled his hair with a good-natured smile; "But whatever's happening with the Circle, it's none of our business. We should just follow our orders and trust that Magister Pavus has it under control."

The child scoffed. Before Mauriel could put his hand on his shoulder and offer him a sympathetic smile, Fareld turned his head and lowered his arms to his sides.

"I should get that squirrel. There's someone in the market who makes their tails into necklaces."

Dorian watched from his study window as his son clambered down the wall and hurried over to the tree. The mage clasped his hands together behind his back, sighing a long, weary sigh, and shook his head when he saw Fareld pick up his kill and pull his knife from its holster.

A knock at the door caught his attention. Dorian reluctantly moved away from his window and ambled to his desk, calling, "Come in!" as he sat down in his chair.

The door opened. Bryce stepped inside with his usual smile on his face, though it quickly fell with he saw his friend's expression. He cocked his head to one side, approaching him with a furrowed brow and concern in his eyes.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No," Dorian half-chuckled, half-sighed and shook his head; "I was just watching the guards."

"Ah."

Bryce looked to his left and saw the guards in question; Fareld was holding the limp, lifeless corpse of a squirrel in his hands, and in his other was a bloodied knife, the creature's curled tail caught between his fingers as he inspected it. From the walls, two archers watched him and occasionally traded words, but neither of them seemed at all disturbed by the scene.

"What did you need, Bryce?"

The Inquisitor turned to his friend again. For a moment he was caught off guard and forgot, scrabbling in his mind to remember, but then the spark reignited and his smile returned.

"Leliana's spies will be joining us soon. If she finishes her duties, she'll be following shortly after," he informed him as he walked closer the desk.

"Goodie."

"And there's been reports of a strange elf in the marketplace."

"Solas?" the mage sat up straighter, his lethargy forgotten; "Is he coming here? We've not heard word from him since he left."

"I'm not sure. But if someone spied him, at least that means he's in the city."

"What in Thedas was he doing at the marketplace?"

"The guards aren't sure. Vivienne speculates he was buying charms; and if not that, perhaps something to help him liberate his people. Personally, I believe he was rendezvousing with a spy."

"That sounds more likely than charms and supplies."

Dorian rubbed his eyes, sighing as though he had not slept in years. The reforms he was proposing were difficult enough – and now with the Circle in his manor, he had no doubt he would be accused of fraternising with foreign forces, playing the double agent between the south and Tevinter. He enjoyed having his friends on hand, of course, and enjoyed more that he could spend time with the Iron Bull, but after time had distanced him from Pollarian's treachery he had started to wonder if he had acted out of impulse.

 _I wanted to protect my son,_ he reminded himself: _I did what I had to so that Fareld would be safe._

 _But now he's shooting squirrels and cutting off their tails._

For a brief second, Dorian wondered if his son was beyond saving. He wondered if the child's attachment to his bow was something he could ever break, and if the memories of death and war could ever be scrubbed from his mind. Had he lost his boy before he had even had him? Had Fareld's days as a marksman sentenced him to a future of arrows and battlefields?

"Let's hope Solas comes to us soon," Bryce pulled him from his grim reverie when he spoke, turning and walking to the door; "I think we've all had enough of waiting."

The Inquisitor put his hand on the handle, then smiling over his shoulder he gestured for Dorian to follow him.

"Come on," he said; "Varric's insisting we have a game of Wicked Grace."

"I should concentrate on the reforms."

"Bull will be there."

Dorian hesitated. Then, with a slight chuckle, he nodded.

"Alright," he agreed; "I'll be with you in a minute."

Bryce nodded and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him as he went. In the silence, Dorian turned his head and looked out the window. His son had clambered back on the wall, and apparently was in deep conversation with his fellow archers.

 _He's my son,_ he told himself: _He's my son._


	14. Fool's Prophets

Life in the Imperium was difficult to adjust to. The Iron Bull was confined to the manor and while the others were free to roam, few of them did so. Fareld listened in on their conversations when he was out on patrol; he would hear word of spies and the occasional stirring for Solas' return, but other than that he found the Circle tight-lipped and wary.

"There's a storm coming," Mauriel told him one night when the pair of them were patrolling the garden wall. Fareld looked up. There were dark clouds shrouding the sky, hiding the stars and blotting out the moon, which rumbled with discontent. He fancied he saw a flash of lightning somewhere far off in the distance, but his friend did not react to it.

"The rain won't fall yet," he said. "We have time."

The archers took up their patrol again. The path was becoming as familiar to Fareld as his own heartbeat. He could map out in his mind the cracks and crevices in the stones, the places he needed to avoid if he did not want to scuff his shoes. Without the moonlight, it was difficult to see much more than a foot in front of them, but both Mauriel and the boy made their way with practiced ease.

Fareld looked up at the manor windows. He could see some of the Circle were still awake; soft firelight flickered across a visible patch of the Iron Bull's wall, and in Vivienne's room there was a candle set on the windowsill. Cole's curtains were open, but he could see no light. The child assumed he had fallen asleep before he could close them.

"Solas is returning." Mauriel's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"How do you know?" Fareld turned his head to stare at him, stopping dead in his tracks. The clouds parted at that moment and the moonlight painted his silhouette silver, and when he looked at him Mauriel saw an archer, steadfast and cunning, in the shape of a child.

"The marketplace whispers," he replied as he continued on the path; "He's quiet about it, but Pavus knows. Solas rides here tonight."

"The marketplace has always whispered. Whether it's true or not is another matter."

"Be optimistic, Fareld."

"Optimism has never worked in my favour."

Mauriel smiled and ruffled his friend's hair. Fareld did not push his hand away, but he did frown and shake his head once he was finished.

"The spirit hasn't closed his curtains, but his light is out," the child noted.

"Perhaps he's out?" Mauriel replied; "Yanna found him skulking around the kitchen earlier. He said he was looking for mice. Tilarus took offence."

"There were mice in there last week."

"Yes, but he thought no one knew."

"What would he even want with them?"

"He said something about the cats dancing. Yanna couldn't hear him – Tilarus was babbling in her ear."

A snap of a twig to the left of them caught their attention. The archers froze and peered into the darkness, hands clutched on their bows, and waited for something to stir again.

"There's something there," muttered Fareld as he drew out his weapon. He pulled an arrow from his quiver as he did so, moving carefully forward with his sights trained on the darkness.

Mauriel drew behind him. He kept still and made no effort to follow; if the enemy lunged at Fareld, he felt he would have a better vantage point from the path.

"Who's there?" the child said after a long beat of silence. At first, there was no reply. Then:

"There's so much blood on you…"

Fareld's brows knitted together. He knew that voice. "Cole?"

"So much blood…"

"There's no blood on me. Come out, spirit."

"It's in your eyes. Weeping, watering, washing your hands red – it's all pouring over you."

Cole moved. The bushes rustled, and as he focused Fareld could see the man's lean silhouette painted black against the leaves. He aimed the arrow at his heart.

"I've drawn," he warned; "Don't try to attack us. Come out - slowly."

The spirit obeyed. He came out carefully, quietly, picking his way through the branches he had concealed himself in. His eyes reflected the moonlight until they shone almost unnaturally bright. Then the clouds covered it again and the light was gone.

"Prophet's laurel," he said. Fareld cocked his head to the side, not lowering his bow. "Prophet's laurel in the pond, wilting, cut. There's a note on them. It's written with tears."

"What are you talking about?" the child demanded.

"She used to keep a vase of them on the table. She whispered secrets in their petals. It was an old hurt, partly forgotten, but they listened all the same."

"My…my mother used to…"

"They went with her, to the grave. She holds a frightened boy's hand, clutching empty promises, then fades into the sun and vanishes, leaving him alone. The midnight bells chime, and he can hear her singing – but far off, distant, growing fainter the more he dreams."

Fareld took a step back and lowered his arrow. Mauriel pulled his string taunt.

"Come to the path!" he ordered; "What are you doing out here, Cole? What's the problem?"

The spirit approached him with his gaze lowered, as he often did. There was a wager amongst the archers that the first person to look in Cole's eyes would be driven mad by their deepest, darkest secrets, but so far no one had done so.

Fareld trailed behind him. He was quiet and subdued as Mauriel figured out Cole had been agitated that night, kept awake by the growing restlessness of the house, and had decided to wait up for Solas' return. He claimed he could 'feel the change', but would not elaborate on what he meant. Every now and then he would glance at the child, wincing every time. He seemed disturbed by him.

"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable in the living room? Magister Pavus is downstairs – I could send someone to find him."

"Why?"

Mauriel stared puzzled at him. "He'll be able to calm any of your concerns."

"Solas is my friend. He likes spirits."

"Aren't you worried about-?"

"He sees a lot. Some of it happened a long time ago. Once he's here, he can tell me about it again. I miss being able to see."

Cole turned and wandered off, mumbling to himself about Solas, but hesitated for a moment beside Fareld. He muttered about blood again – this time about the smell of it - before hurrying on his way.

"What an odd man," said Mauriel once he was out of earshot.

"That's not a man," Fareld sheathed his bow; "That's a spirit. Come on. Let's carry on."

The pair of them started their patrol again. Fareld looked up at the sky, and the first raindrop fell on his cheek.


	15. Returned

Fareld had accepted long ago that the 'recruits' he was sent to train were entirely fictional. He spent his time performing his duties, learning little nuggets of useless information, and what little he had to spare was devoted to practicing his craft or discreetly conjuring spectral prophet's laurel.

Cole's words had set him on edge. He spent hours at the window of their quarters, watching the mannered street, the Altus with their horses, waiting for Solas to return and throw their lives into chaos. Grenas' encrypted notes were few and far between. He almost forgot his mission on occasion, when he was patrolling the guest wing with his bow in his hands and poison-tipped arrows strapped to his back.

Then, one night, as he sat quietly on a stool in the hidden hallway and carved a sylvan out of wood, he heard the hurried footsteps of a man approaching the door. Fareld reached over and snatched up his bow seconds before the door swung open, flooding the dimly lit hall with light, and a serious, solemn Gerard nodded at him.

"He's here."

The child nodded and followed him into the corridor. His half-finished sylvan was left abandoned on the stool, its face twisted in rage and an eternal howl etched on its lips, as the door shut and plunged it into darkness.

Gerard led him to the other archers and muttered their orders. He was to join Mauriel inside the room, and the others were to stand guard at the door. Fenris in particular was not permitted to speak. He took offence, but the gravity of the situation rendered him silent. As the marksmen were led to their positions, Fareld felt the sweat of his hands seep into his gloves. He had not seen Solas since Pollarian's death. The elf had witnessed his act of murder, and would that memory not be engraved on his face?

"Remember," said the butler as he reached for the door handle, "Magister Pavus and his associates will be learning sensitive information. Mauriel, Fareld – this is for no one else's ears."

The archers' faces were solemn as they nodded.

* * *

The Circle came into the living room soon after they had picked out their positions. Fareld was behind the door that led to the hall with a clear view of the room and Mauriel, reluctantly, had taken a spot nearer to the door at the far end. The plastic slips on the chairs had been removed and the area tidied. There was even a decanter of Rowan's Rose on the little end table near the sofa.

The Circle members filed in with different expressions. There was a new woman with them – a redhead with sheer cheekbones and intelligent eyes, her hood drawn up over her head as though to hide herself. She peered at him with intrigue, and beside her Cullen leaned over to whisper something in her ear. She nodded.

Once the door opened again, the uneasy silence in the room seemed to increase. Fareld swore he could feel some sort of nervous energy, and the slight throb of the air alerted him to the two mages entering within.

Dorian was first. He nodded with a strained smile to all those gathered. Behind him, Solas stepped into the room.

The elf seemed more or less at ease. He had his hands folded together in front of him, his posture elegant, almost poised, as he acknowledged his old friends with a polite but genuine smile. He had not changed from his blue robes, but it appeared he had washed them. His eyes were wise and calm.

Fareld considered pulling his bow.

"Friends," he said in a relaxed voice. "It's good to see you again."

"Solas." Bryce acknowledged.

"It's…been a while." Cullen said.

"Indeed it has." The elf nodded. "I apologise for my disappearance but, as you can see, I've been doing quite some travelling." He half-turned to walk around the room, which is when he caught sight of Fareld. He smiled again. "Ah, I thought I sensed you."

Fareld's eyes narrowed and he nodded. The others' faces were confused, but Vivienne, her chin raised slightly upwards, only raised her eyebrow in response.

"Did you recover well?"

The child's eyes darkened. Dorian cut in to save him.

"Fareld is fine," he said; "There's a more pressing matter at hand, Solas."

He turned to face the Circle again, folding his hands together once more as he started to aimlessly pace the room. His eyes wandered over the walls to note the decorations, the fine furniture, the paintings; a far cry from Dorian's little library in Skyhold.

"Come on, spit it out," the Iron Bull huffed. His voice set Fareld on edge. He reached up to clutch the tip of his bow, but the action went unnoticed by the room. "We're not here to read your mind."

"No, of course not. I'm simply wondering how best to explain. It's rather an unbelievable – and dangerous – development."

"We were all involved in the war on Corypheus," Leliana pointed out, her voice heavy with an Orlesian accent; "The unbelievable hardly surprises us anymore."

"I think it's best if you just came out with it, Solas," the Inquisitor said. His old friend nodded, his arms falling to his sides as he fixed them all with his sagely gaze.

"The Venatori are plotting to kill all reformers of Tevinter," he said, to which Fareld grit his teeth, "and they're employing drastic measures to do it."

"That's not exactly news, Chuckles." Varric pointed out. "The Venatori have been a thorn in our side since before the Inquisition."

"Yes, this is information we know."

"Please, let me explain." He said. The room fell into an uncomfortable, loaded silence again. He nodded at them with gratitude.

"Thank you. As we know, the Venatori are no new threat. Without Corypheus, it was hoped they would fall into shambles, never to recover their strength. The loss would be impossible to overcome."

Dorian made as though to interject, but he thought better of it. He could see Solas was only partway through his speech. Behind him, Fareld listened intently – and closer to Mauriel, Cole could sense the agitation in the child's heart, how his soul shifted from quiet unease to attentiveness. On occasion, even his face mirrored the sudden change. Leliana, had she not been so absorbed in Solas, would certainly have noted it for future reference.

"And so far, that hope has been bolstered with constant arrests and successful raids on Venatori encampments. Supremacists were being found and slaves freed, pupils sent elsewhere, blood mages put to death. We were winning the long-war."

"Were?" Cullen said. Solas nodded. His face turned grave and sombre.

"Yes," he said; "We were. But now I fear the tide has turned again, and soon we will all come under attack from the Venatori."

His words were met with a pregnant silence. Even the Iron Bull did not speak, though Fareld imagined he saw an excited glint in his eye.

 _Savage._

"What is it that's brought on this fear?" Cullen asked. "Surely it must be something more than hearsay." Solas turned his gaze towards him, but it seemed as though he was looking through the commander. His eyes were distant, as if in another world. Cole's pale face twitched.

"There's a feeling in the air," he said. "No doubt you've felt it too, Vivienne. Dorian."

"A feeling?"

Dorian's brow furrowed in confusion. "What feeling do you mean, exactly?"

"Jarring, jagged, jugulars cut open," Cole's little voice muttered. "Two red eyes staring out of the embers, staring at us, staring at _me_ – whispering, whispering lies, binding souls to the soil…"

"Cole?" Varric said, touching his shoulder, but the spirit appeared not to notice him. He fell into a bout of fervent muttering, shaking his head in distress.

"What's happening? What's wrong with him?" demanded Cassandra. Immediately, Fareld understood. He was not sure how, but the rising uncertainty in his gut, the cold sweat that broke out across his spine, brought the realisation crashing down on him.

"Corypheus is back…" he murmured. Solas turned to him with a sad smile, almost apologetic as he nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I fear he is."

The room was stunned, and as Cole murmured feverishly to himself, muttering cryptic words about that ancient evil, Fareld could swear he felt everyone's blood run cold.


	16. Winter

In the following weeks, strangers arrived at the manor that simply never left. They wore emblems, swords, armour shined to perfection; these were Inquisition soldiers, and no matter if Dorian assured them that their authority was final, the archers were aware that soon their expertise and innate Imperium-born familiarity would be ignored. It was only a matter of time before their 'authority' was subordinate to the Inquisition's.

The weather had turned foul in the creeping winter months. Fareld watched the rain through the window as he strolled along his patrol routes. He was in the guest wing of the manor, noting the familiar furniture and designs while the ancient eyes of the Pavus family stared down and watched his every move. He could see himself in some of those faces. The handsome jaws, the chiselled, sculpted noses, the olive skin, sophisticated frowns; their blood flowed hot in his veins, and he hated it.

To his left, he heard a door open. Fareld's hand flew up to the tip of his bow as he turned, only to come face to face with Vivienne. The child eyed her with quiet suspicion.

"Oh!" she said when she noticed him. She had been fiddling with the belt on her outfit, and he was quiet when he moved. She had had no idea he was even in the hall. But as the pair stared at each other in silence, waiting for the other to make a move, she overcame her minor shock and shook her head.

"Don't you have a patrol to get to?" she muttered, clutching her belt again, "Or are you just going to stand there and glare at me for an age?"

Fareld bit his tongue. In his mind, he reminded himself that he was on a mission; a mission that required he was efficient and reliable, for the future of Tevinter. If Vivienne's attitude remained after the Imperium rose again, he would deal with her then. He would insist on it.

"Having a practical infant as a guard – absolutely ridiculous! Absurd." The mage turned on her heel as if to leave but, before she could, another door opened down the hall.

"Vivienne!" a familiar voice called out – Solas. Fareld had not been informed he had a room in the wing, but he noted it down for future reference. Once all came to a head, he had no doubt the elf would prove a thorn in his side.

She stopped as Solas approached her, offering a cool stare in response to his smile. Fareld thought of Solas as an old man, wise and well-travelled, but his youthful appearance reminded him of the Korcari wilds' witches and all of their forbidden spells.

The conversation was brief; Vivienne was needed in a conference with Dorian and the Inquisitor, as well as himself. She made a snide remark about his ability to 'disappear and reappear' in times of crisis, and how danger seemed to follow him on his heels, before agreeing to join them after she had eaten. Fareld lingered for a while as she went down the hall and vanished out to the stairs. He watched to be certain she had left, and as he made a move to disappear Solas turned and spotted him.

"Fareld," he said, smiling that soft, disarming smile, the one he refused to trust. Fareld clutched his bow and stared at him, putting his feet into position in case he attacked.

"There's no need to be afraid," Solas chuckled, "I'm not here to hurt you."

Fareld's grip tightened. The elf's smile dropped into a frown and, slowly, his face morphed from soft to curious - dangerously curious.

"But you're not afraid, are you?" he said, creeping closer to him, bending down slightly as if to peer into his eyes; "Distrust. Anger. Sadness. I bet Cole could write an entire story with the words he hears from you."

"No closer, elf," Fareld murmured. He pulled his weapon from his back and a quiver from its sheath, loading it with speed and practiced ease. By the look in his eye, hidden deep in his hood as he pulled the string taut, Solas had no doubt he would use it.

"Distrustful," he said, his fists glowing a hot, lurid purple as he tightened them, "Even of friends?" Before Fareld could react, Solas raised his hands and swept them to the side, and his bow was knocked from his grasp and across the room. It fell with a clatter. The archer stepped back with shock scrawled across his face, but then he turned and stared his opponent down, scowling, waiting for his next move.

Solas peered at him for a few seconds. It was clear he would not be intimidated into using his own magic.

"A shame," he said. Both he and Fareld knew what he was talking about. "No need to fret. I won't tell Dorian of this. It's our secret, hm?"

The child watched as he turned on his heel and walked away. Solas went down the hall, following Vivienne's path, before opening the door and vanishing out to the stairs, letting it swing back into place behind him with a resounding _thud_. Fareld was still until he had disappeared from sight.

Then, once he was certain he was alone, the child reached toward where his bow lay and summoned the ancient magic in his blood, levitating it and drawing it safely into his hands. He pulled at the string to be certain it was still tight before strapping it to his back.

After he had retrieved his arrow, Fareld continued his patrol.

* * *

The Inquisition soldiers were based inside of the manor. Dorian had ordered it so as not to raise suspicion. It was an excellent arrangement, but when Tilani came in to discuss the ongoing reform debates and saw them in their coats and emblems, her face dropped from casual indifference to concern.

" _Soldiers?_ " she demanded once the pair of them were in his study, shut away from the Circle, "What on Thedas do you think you're doing, inviting _southern, Inquisition soldiers_ into your manor? If anyone were to find out, the reforms would—"

"I know!" he said, and she fell silent. "I know. But it's for an extremely good reason, Tilani; that I can assure you."

"And what reason is that?" her arms were folded, a scowl on her face, but she trusted in Dorian's judgement. If he had a reason for inviting 'the enemy' on to their soil at such a delicate time, it was a good one.

"Tilani…"

The magister looked up at the closed door behind her. He considered telling her. He considered ignoring his pact of confidence with the Inquisitor and confiding in her every little detail of Corypheus…but he was bound by oath. Bryce trusted him, and he could not – would not – break that trust.

"Trust me when I say there's nothing I would rather do right now than tell you everything. But I can't. Once I learn more, I promise you'll be the first to know – but until then, please, let's just focus ourselves on Lucerni."

She peered at him for a long while. "Dorian, if there's something pressing I should know…"

"When the time comes – _if_ it comes – I'll keep no secrets from you."

The woman stayed silent for a moment more, then, with a sigh, unfolded her arms and took her seat.

"Very well," she said as she settled herself down into the chair, "I'll trust you, for now. If it develops, however, I expect I'll be brought into your confidence." She put her hands on the table, looking up at him with her intelligent, probing eyes. He swore she could see right through him.

"Now then," she said, "shall we get on with it?"


	17. The Snowfall

The first snowfall of winter had come down upon Minrathous, and overnight the world was transformed into a beautiful white sea, sparkling under cold sunshine.

It left a peculiar mood on the manor. The archers went about their patrols, but Gerard found them once or twice admiring the wagtails and the redpolls leaving little clawed footprints in the snow, or throwing snowballs at Inquisition soldiers. Fareld, for all of his stoicism, was even seen smiling as he completed his patrol of the garden.

Dorian felt hopeful that the weather would liven people's spirits. The news of Corypheus' return had weighed down on the Circle, and as the date for his reforms loomed he found himself reaching more and more for his special whisky reserves. But his archers' antics, ever the source of intrigue, brought a smile to his face, and as Gerard informed him of their mischief he laughed and rose from his desk. He told him to leave them be and focus himself on more pertinent problems, and with a nod the butler bowed and left the room.

Dorian went to his window and looked out over the garden. The branches of the bare trees were heavy with snow and an unnatural silence had settled around them. He could see no birds – the redpolls and the wagtails had vanished, leaving the land still, almost eerily so. The sight brought him peace. It felt odd to consider that, somewhere in all that beauty, Thedas was under threat again.

He could not help but fear that as winter progressed, the danger would come to engulf them.

* * *

It was near midday when he decided he would take a walk outside of the city's confines. Gerard advised him against it – he spoke of 'unknown threats' and skirted around the idea of an assassination – but Dorian waylaid his fears with a mention of the Iron Bull, who had offered to accompany him.

"Sir, perhaps it would be best to have a guard join you as well?" he ventured, his tone polite and respectful, but his meaning clear. Dorian fancied if he refused, he would send one after him regardless.

"Perhaps," he mused.

"I'll send for Mauriel. He's excellent at—"

"I would prefer it if Fareld came with us," the mage told him. Gerard's expression transformed from delight to notable caution.

"With all due respect, sir, Fareld is…He's not fond of Master Iron Bull's kind."

"I know that. But he's loyal and dedicated, and he's one of our best archers. I suspect he'll be relieved to leave the manor for an afternoon." The magister smiled, and Gerard knew that his decision had been made. "Have a carriage prepared for us – one with curtains. We can't afford to have Bull seen inside the city walls."

"Shall I send for Fareld as well, sir?"

"Please."

The carriage was prepared – a large black cart, with red velvet curtains drawn closed across two sizable, glass-less windows – and Fareld was sent for. The child stared at Gerard in disbelief when he heard the news.

"Accompanying _the Iron Bull_?" he repeated, and his companion nodded. "That Qunari bastar _—"_

"Magister Pavus asked for you personally. I tried to persuade him to take Mauriel instead, but he insisted – and we must obey his orders."

The archer scowled, but his hands were tied. If he were to refuse a direct order it would lead to suspicion; and after so much silence in response to his reports, he was desperate to prove to Grenas that he still had a solid control over his mission.

"Fine," he said, "Let me prepare my arrows."

* * *

The journey was an hour long due to the snow, but soon enough the carriage had left the city walls and travelled some way out into the surrounding lands, near to a forest, where it came to a halt. Fareld jumped down from his spot on the roof and started to scout the area, an arrow drawn as his father and the Iron Bull slid out of their seats. If not for their snow-boots, their shins would have been sodden.

"It's clear," Fareld called. He was crouched low to the ground, his face hard with concentration. Dorian smiled.

"Let's start then, shall we?"

Fareld kept ahead of them. He went with his bow drawn, and sometimes he dipped out of sight for so long that the men behind him became concerned, following his footprints until he resurfaced somewhere in the distance. There was an amicable silence between them for most of the walk. It was wonderful just to be in each other's company.

"So…" the Iron Bull said at length. "How is it? Being a dad, I mean."

"I'm hardly a father. He can't stand me."

"He's had a lot to deal with – more than a kid should. Wounds like that don't disappear overnight. Give him time."

"I've never been one for optimism," he murmured.

"Fareld's a hard one to figure out. He's sharp, fast, and he's reliable. He's got a good head on his shoulders. But there's something about him I can't quite place…"

"What do you mean?" The pair had slowed, letting Fareld run further ahead, "Are you…suspicious of him?"

"Not suspicious, per-se. He's just…For all his anger, he keeps it inside. He follows orders, he never fails to deliver. He's an ideal soldier. But people don't get that way overnight. Sure, you can be predisposed to it, but no one's an ideal soldier without something – some _one_ – making them that way."

"He was trained by Nirornor, Minrathous' head marksman."

"That's all well and good, but it still doesn't equal perfect. I don't know. I just feel like he's hiding something. He's too… _dedicated._ "

The mage's brow furrowed. His lover's concerns made sense – Fareld was more or less a model archer, a fast and reliable child soldier who had no qualms with death or murder. But despite his agreement, Dorian could not imagine his son had sinister motives. Despite their situation, he loved him.

"Besides," said the Iron Bull, "why would he hide his magic?"

Dorian's head shot up, but just as he was about to respond there was a shout ahead of them, and the sound of an arrow soaring through the air.

"What was that?"

"Fareld!" Dorian breathed, and then he was running ahead, in the sound's direction. Bull had no choice but to run after him.

The mage charged through the trees as fast as he could, barrelling through the snow as he called out to Fareld. The child did not respond, but he heard his voice; he was further ahead, past the thick oaks, and he was under fire.

Both Dorian and the Iron Bull could hear someone shouting, "We'll mount your head on a wall!"


	18. Legionnaire

Dorian erupted into the clearing. An arrow soared past his line of vision, and then he felt a hard, cannon ball-like object collide into him, knocking him down to the cold, wet snow and behind a fallen tree.

"Keep down!" he heard Fareld hiss into his ear. The child drew another arrow from his quiver and pulled his bowstring taut, peering over the top of their cover with narrowed eyes.

"What in the Hell is going on?" Dorian panted.

"Qunari," Fareld replied without looking at him, "About eight of them, behind the trees. Where's the Bull?"

"He was—he was right behind me!"

"Well he's not there now. Probably defected." Fareld loaded his arrow. "Nine."

Dorian could hear the arrows hitting the other side of the tree, and the enemies' voices calling out taunts and insults at his son. The child was crouched low, but once or twice he sprang up and fired off his arrows, and when he dropped to the floor again his father heard pained cries behind them.

Fareld ducked his head low, deep in thought, as he loaded another arrow. The Qunari were hiding behind the trees, and even in the snow their metallic blue bodies were difficult to see, their voices disorienting. He had hit some, but the wounds would be superficial. Their ranged attacks were precise if overzealous; at least fifteen arrows were embedded in their cover, and right where their heads were on the other side. If the pair of them were to make it out alive – and, hopefully, with the outfit's heads – he needed to be quick and precise. He needed to protect Dorian. His heart hammered against his ribcage as he scanned the area for an escape.

Then, there was a strangled cry behind them. A shout – "What the _fu_ — _"_ – and then someone hitting the floor, someone large and muscular, and a roar that could rattle the bones of a warship. Fareld flinched in the snow and drew up his weapon, but Dorian smiled beside him and sprang to his feet.

"What are you doing—!" The child started, but he was silenced when his father conjured up two dark purple balls of energy in his hands, snarling as he threw them out into the clearing and summoned floating, fearsome spectres to his side. Their faceless forms faded in and out of reality, appearing in all manner of shapes and sizes, and did as Dorian commanded – and Dorian was out for blood. He moved out from behind the tree cover, his eyes fixed forward, leaving his son to stare after him until he was out of sight.

With a sigh, Fareld squeezed his eyes shut and sprang to his feet.

The Iron Bull was on the other side of the clearing, tearing down the Qunari that had attacked him – large creatures, some with horns and some without, all trying to hit the mercenary as he tore through their ranks. Dorian's spirits were flooding the areas between them and Bull. The attackers flinched from them, fear in their eyes, and that hesitation afforded the spirits precious seconds to launch their assault, leaving the Qunari in crumpled heaps on the floor.

Fareld knelt in the snow and took aim. He hit a scrabbling assailant square in their eye, and smiled when he heard their howl of pain. His next arrow met silence. He took aim again.

Once Dorian and Fareld had dealt with the ranged attackers, and the Iron Bull had knocked the others unconscious, the child pulled out his blade from his boot and started on their throats. His father moved to stop him, but Bull put a hand on his chest and shook his head. Fareld cut their throats with medical precision. After he was done, the snow beneath them was a deep, dark red.

The child wiped the blade on his trousers and peered at the corpses before them. Underneath one, he could see squirming – and when he knelt to peer more closely, and Dorian was once more stopped by Bull from pulling him away, he jumped up with surprise:

"There's a fox under this one!"

He started to push at the corpse. It was too heavy for him, but soon the Iron Bull strode over and hauled it to the side, ignoring the blood that splashed across his arm. Fareld lifted the creature from the ground – a little snow fox, he realised, as he cradled it in his arms. Its sharp snout pressed against his bicep as its tail draped across his forearm, and with a smile he soothed its frightened whimpers.

"Leave it be, Fareld. No doubt it'll find some place to lick its wounds."

The child's face fell. He held the fox in his arms, frowning as its white face stared up at him, looking into the wide, clever eyes that reached deep into his soul. Dorian softened when he saw it; it was so pure, so unlike Fareld that he could not help himself when he said, "On second thought, bring it with us. Bad weather can't be good for an injured fox, even a snow fox."

Fareld brightened, but quickly composed himself. The archer nodded and held the animal close to his chest, as if he thought it would disappear if he let it go. The Iron Bull smiled behind him.

"We handled ourselves well out there. Especially you, kid. You're a good shot with that bow."

He frowned as he peered over his shoulder, but he made no reproach. Instead, the child offered Bull a short, curt nod, then returned his attention to the fox.

"I'm going to call you Legionnaire." He mumbled into its oversized ears.

Dorian scanned the area behind them, ensuring that the bodies were all dead…and with horror, he saw one of them had risen to his feet and was rapidly staggering towards his son, a bloodied hand reached out to grab him.

"Fareld, watch out—!"

Dorian sprang to action, but he was too slow. Fareld spun on his heel and outstretched one of his hands, crying out as a spurt of lightning erupted from his fingertips and fried the Qunari where he stood. The smell of charred flesh and singed organs hung heavy in the air as he fell to the floor.

There was silence. The Iron Bull's mouth gaped open as Fareld cradled his fox, soothing it with soft encouragements, and Dorian could only stare. They knew the child was a mage, but his control over magic – magic he had never once demonstrated in front of them – was too skilled not to have been used before.

Fareld moved towards the forest, in the direction of the carriage. The couple lingered behind for a moment more, then followed.

* * *

Dorian and Bull sat in silence in the carriage for a long while. Fareld had chosen to steer, but he had put his new pet in a small alcove with them, bundled in some spare curtains he had found hidden underneath the seats. It slept soundly, its tail draped across the upholstery and its ears lying flat over its face.

"Leeeeeegionnaire," Bull soon said. "Rolls of the tongue. Sorta."

"He used his magic," Dorian said, "And he was excellent at it."

"We all knew he was a mage, Dorian."

"But we didn't know he was a _good_ mage. It was one thing when he was untrained and not using it, it's another when he's experienced and not." He sighed and rested the back of his head against the carriage wall. "Who trained him? Why does he not use it? This isn't the south – he won't be sent off to a Circle, there's no problem with his being a mage. So _why hide it_?"

The Iron Bull offered him a sympathetic smile. "I don't have answers. But, look at it this way – we made some good progress with him today."

"How so? All I saw was my son cutting Qunari throats open."

"Well, he didn't cut mine open, for one."

Dorian smiled, "I'm awfully glad he didn't do that."

"We'll find answers eventually. For now, let's just be glad we didn't get gutted out there."

The pair gazed at each other for a moment, then the mage looked at Legionnaire. He sighed.

"Of all the pets," he mumbled, "Why not a dog?"


	19. Restless

"It wasn't just the magic – it was the skill. Fareld is _experienced_ ; he's done it before and I have no idea where or how."

Dorian had insisted on discussing the events of their trip with the Inquisitor and his advisors as soon as he stepped through the door. Fareld had gone elsewhere with his little pet; he was concentrating on nursing the fox to full health, and had committed to forget his mistake at the clearing. Cullen and Bryce sat side-by-side near Dorian's desk, leaning forwards as though to listen more closely, while Josephine stood near the window and Leliana the door. All four of them watched as Dorian paced between his desk and window, his brow furrowed in thought.

"He's an Imperium boy," Cullen pointed out. "There's no shortage of mages to teach him control."

"Unless he came across an unusually charitable noble, _and_ saved his life, no one would have taken the time out of their lives to teach him. He was a slave child. Even as a mage, he wouldn't have been considered worth more than his labour – and certainly wouldn't have been taken under someone's wing as an apprentice."

"His mother, then?" Bryce suggested, "She was a mage."

"Mari was…not particularly talented. Her family was known for its 'muddied bloodline' – could never tell if the next child would be a mage or not." Dorian lingered at the window as he spoke, resting his hand against his chin. With a soft chuckle, he added, "If my mother were to find out who Fareld's mother was, she would have a fit. She couldn't have taught him to that level of skill."

"Then the Venatori?" Leliana said. Dorian's head turned and he fixed her with a hard stare, his hands slowly rising to his hips. "It's a legitimate concern, once we've considered the Imperium's current political climate. We must be vigilant if we're to protect your life."

"I hardly think the Venatori would be interested in a child, Leliana," Cullen said.

"Fareld isn't just any child. He's Dorian's son – a useful ally to have under one's banner."

"The Venatori wouldn't have known he's Dorian's son," Bryce pointed out.

"No? And yet when you look at them, it's like looking at a mirror image. A blind man would see the resemblance."

"What, then? They just picked him up and taught him how to control his magic in the hopes he might come in useful? He must be, what, ten? Eleven?"

"Ten," Dorian replied.

"Ten. And if they had him during the Inquisition, why not use him then?"

"The Venatori had greater numbers then. Now they are just shadows."

"Fareld has been nothing but obedient since he came to the manor," Dorian said sharply, "I have no doubt about his loyalty. He _saved_ us from a Venatori attacker."

"Yes, but he has no _reason_ to pledge his loyalty to you – for all intents and purposes, Dorian, he despises you. Why would he devote himself to serving a man he has no love for?"

The man frowned and turned his head to look out of the window. His voice was low as he said, "Because he's loyal to the archers, and to the Imperium."

Leliana paused. She heard the sadness in Dorian's voice, the melancholia in his words. The spymistress looked over at Josephine and shared a nod, and then she bowed.

"I apologise, Dorian," she said, "I meant no disrespect. I am simply curious to find out where Fareld's magical aptitude comes from."

"Then we'll find out – and we'll find out _without_ accusing my son of being a Tevinter supremacist."

* * *

It was late. Fareld crept through the manor on quiet feet, careful not to disturb the maids or the sleeping Inquisition soldiers. Legionnaire was draped across his shoulder, his large ears up and alert as the pair slipped out into the corridor and towards the stairs.

The child started down to the foyer, but was startled by a shadow coming out of another wing. He leapt to the far banister in surprise, grabbing for his bow, but with a frown he realised he had left it propped up in the archers' quarters – a fool's mistake. The shadow paused.

"Fareld?" it muttered – Dorian's voice, "It's not your night for patrol."

"I was thirsty."

Dorian stepped out of the darkness and smiled at his son. He was dressed in his bed-robes; a crimson silk dressing gown, not monogramed, which struck Fareld as odd. He chuckled softly before asking:

"Can't sleep either?"

Fareld paused. He responded with a curt, short nod, his distrustful eyes never leaving Dorian's face. The man put a hand on the banister, the other on his hip, and met his gaze.

"I used to wander the halls when everyone was asleep as well," he said. "If one of the servants found me, they'd make me some warm milk and send me off to bed. Would you like some?"

The child was silent, but Legionnaire pressed up against the side of his head and let out a little grumble. With another curt nod, he followed Dorian towards the kitchen.

The room was dark, but his father put some kindling in the fireplace the moment he and his son stepped inside. Fareld saw as he turned to look at him, nodding at the fresh wood and burn-paper.

"Care to do the honours?" he asked. The child frowned, but reached out and faced his palm towards the hearth, letting a long billowing streak of flame pour from his hand and set the tinder alight. Dorian watched, and was once more amazed at his control. Fareld's face was illuminated in the soft orange light, and there was no struggle, just a deep concentration as he watched the flames rise up and engulf the wood.

Once the fire was crackling, the archer lowered his hand. Legionnaire jumped from his shoulder and hurried to the stone just in front of the fireplace, where he curled up and promptly fell asleep.

"Impressive," Dorian said as he retrieved the milk and picked out a few petals of embrium, crushing them in his hand. Fareld sat on a stool near the fire, watching his father closely, caution still hard in his eyes. "You're showing the same talent I was at your age. When did you come into your magic?"

The child hesitated. "I was seven."

Dorian went about warming the milk, setting it on top of the stove in a polished pan and lighting the fire underneath with his hand. Fareld had heard tales of his father's magic, mostly from his mother. She had claimed he was one of the most powerful mages she had ever met. He was skilled, a diligent study, and had many 'successes'; his patron Alexius had been extremely proud of him. Their battle had proven him an accomplished wielder. He was almost envious.

"Do you have a particular area of study?" he asked. Fareld thought for a split second.

"Elemental." Almost hesitantly, he added, "I have some experience in necromancy."

"Oh? That's my area of study." Dorian retrieved two glasses and a bowl, pouring equal measures of milk inside them. In the glasses, he scattered the crushed embrium petals.

The man turned and handed Fareld his milk. The boy raised an eyebrow at the embrium floating on top, and Dorian chuckled as he lowered the bowl down beside Legionnaire.

"It's the recipe the servants used to give me. Gives it some more kick. Don't worry – it's perfectly drinkable."

Fareld hesitated again, but drank. The embrium felt warm against his tongue, and added a spice that he could not quite place. Dorian sat opposite him with his own glass. He watched as his son drank and saw the spark of intrigue in his eyes, the slight smile he had when he stared at his milk and the little petals floating on top of it.

"Today was…interesting," he said. "Let's hope that next week we won't have more unwelcome surprises."

Fareld looked up at him, his lips tight and silent. There was a question in his eyes.

"For the magisterium. I've chosen you, Dillari, Fenris and Mauriel as my vanguard."

"The reforms?" he replied, though his voice was cautious, almost reluctant. Dorian smiled. It was a tenuous dialogue, but it was dialogue.

"Yes, though I'm certain we'll be shouted down on the senate floor." He took a sip of his drink.

"Then why propose them?" Fareld asked.

"It's a statement. If we show ourselves as wanting change and offer people a way to campaign for it, more will come out in support of us. Eventually, I hope Tevinter will see the error of her ways."

"The Imperium is strong," Fareld's face hardened as he drank. "It's always been strong."

"It's a shadow of the Imperium of a thousand years ago, but, with time and change, and less pride, we can become respectable again – _influential_ again."

"What need do we have to influence southerners? They leashed their mages for centuries."

"That was true here as well, until it changed by inches. It was different for the south, what with the rebellion, but once the Inquisition supported free mages people's resistance started to break. It's not perfect, but it's changing. The magisters are too concerned with influence mongering to campaign for real change in the Imperium." Dorian paused, then with a smile he asked, "Were you born in Vyrantium?"

Fareld was caught off-guard by the question, and so he answered almost without thinking, "Vol Dorma."

"The fort city?"

The child nodded hesitantly.

"Odd. Mari always loved the coastline."

Fareld's face darkened somewhat as he said, "Her master lived in Vol Dorma."

Dorian frowned, realising his mistake too late, but pressed on.

"Did you learn how to use your bow there?"

"Yes. Nirornor saw me trying to use it and gave me arrows." Fareld's eyes softened. "He taught me how to shoot properly."

"He's very proud of your abilities. Nirornor's no mage, though. Who taught you how to control your magic?"

"A…friend."

"Will you tell me which friend?"

Fareld was silent. Dorian could see his guard rise, and with a smile and a laugh he dispelled it.

"Nevermind," he said, "Not important. If you want to learn necromancy, there's no better teacher than myself. Wouldn't want some fifth-rate Chantry scholar filling your head with pointless runes and rituals."

"You want to teach me?"

"Of course. The greatest gift I can give you, Fareld, is my knowledge. I'd be denying you a divine right if I didn't. And I'd rather enjoy having a pupil, especially one with your talent."

Fareld did not respond for a moment. He focused his eyes on his drink, and Dorian watched as his face grew conflicted. He seemed almost nervous. When he looked up, he asked in a quiet, uncertain voice:

"Why did you leave?"

Dorian stared at him for a beat. "It's…complicated."

"Mother said you never wanted to."

"No, I didn't – not at first. Then, after a while of being in the south, I realised how much I hadn't seen, how much I wanted to experience. But if I had known about you, I would have found a way to come back. I would have been here for you, for your mother."

There was silence as the child stared at him. Then, with a sigh, he replied, "Empty words, now." Dorian offered his son a sad, gentle smile.

"Come," he said softly, "Finish your drink, and let's put you and Legionnaire to bed. It's been...a tiring day."

Fareld obeyed.


	20. Empty Words, Now

The embrium milk and warm blankets did not soothe the terrors from Fareld's dreams. Warped memories of his mother had beset him all night; he awoke screaming, and it was by pure luck alone that no one was in the archers' quarters when he did.

His bones ached as he sat up in his bed. His eyelids drooped and his entire body was heavy, as if he had not slept at all. In the few windows dotted around the room, he could see it had snowed again.

 _Her face…_ Fareld thought while he started to prepare for the day: _Why did her face look like that?_

He looked on the table when he passed it to fetch his bow. There was an envelope on it – sealed, he noticed – and out of curiosity, the boy turned it over. He had expected it to be for Fenris or Dillari, both of whom had family members in Vyrantium, or Mauriel's southern friend who occasionally sent him letters in the old elven language. He did not expect to find his own name scrawled on it, especially not in such fine penmanship. It was sealed with the Pavus coat-of-arms.

Though he should have recoiled, Fareld's interest piqued. Had Dorian sent him an official sealed envelope to invite him to the magisterium? He supposed so as he tore the letter top open and started to pull it out.

Immediately, he knew it was not from Dorian. The letterhead read from their esteemed estate in Qarinus; an estate that his father had not yet returned to, nor to his knowledge had any servants attending. When he scanned through, he realised his father had not sent it, but someone else entirely – someone he never thought he would be contacted by.

 _Aquinea?_

He read the letter.

 _To my Dearest Fareld,_

 _There is so much to say, but all of it would be pointless. I fear I would run out of paper before I wrote it to you – and some conversations are better left in person. The time I have left on Thedas is short, and I hope before I pass we have time to speak; I might have time to know you._

 _Before the year is out, I would like to meet you and bestow on you your birth rights. I have an amulet for you; it was your grandfather's, Halward. He would have been thrilled to know that it was given to his grandson. Once you have returned to Qarinus, we shall right the wrongs you have been subject to._

 _With all my love, dearest child,_

 _Your Grandmother, Aquinea Pavus_

For a moment, a war raged on inside Fareld's mind. He was at once touched and furious; touched that this woman he had never met, a woman he had rarely even thought about, would extend a personal hand to him, and furious that she thought for one second that the 'wrongs' he and his mother had experienced could be righted with amulets and promises of birth right. Had he not bled for their mistakes? Had he not suffered for their ignorance?

"Empty words, now." He said as he crumpled the paper in his hand.

* * *

The snow had fallen again, and for most of the day Fareld was stationed outside, patrolling the walls and watching fat Altus family cats struggle to navigate their gardens. Legionnaire preferred to remain on his shoulder. The weather seemed to agree with him.

Dorian watched him from his study. He noticed the vacant stare in his eyes, the occasional misstep that almost sent him tumbling to the floor. He was distracted. The mage was aware his mother had sent a letter – he himself had received one, telling him to 'hurry up with his business and return with her grandson' – but, even so, Fareld was not the sort to be so unfocused.

 _What are you thinking about?_ He wondered as he reached for his glass of whisky.

Fareld reached up and stroked one of Legionnaire's ears. The fox leaned forward and nuzzled his frozen cheek, letting out a hot huff of breath that reminded him how cold he was. Had he forgotten to wear his gloves? Fareld cursed himself. His fingers were stiff and almost useless. As he turned to go inside and warm his bones, he heard a shuffling in the distance; and in an instant, he was out with his bow, pointing it down at the bushes just below him.

"Cole?" he called out. "Is that you again?"

The spirit's pale face appeared between the branches interlaced with snow. He looked up at Fareld, his expression curiously blank, while the boy sighed and retracted his bow.

"You're following me," he said.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"There's so much hurt. I can't figure out how to make it better."

"I don't understand you."

"I don't understand you either." He rose from his hiding spot, snow dusting his shoulders and clinging to his trouser legs. His movements were heavy and laboured, as though he was in pain. "I heard you screaming."

"I wasn't screaming."

"Not with your mouth."

"How does that even—"

"Eyes, eyes, memories in the shape of eyes—"

The manor's back door opened. Out stepped Dorian, clad in a beautiful and flowing coat, carrying on his arm a smaller coat with a set of leather gloves. Fareld immediately stood to attention. Cole watched him closely.

"It's cold out here," said the mage as he drew closer, kicking snow out of his way, "Put these on, Fareld."

The child took them and started to dress himself. Dorian turned to their companion with a quirked brow.

"What are you doing out here, Cole? I've been hearing odd things."

"What things?"

"Dillari said you stole Fenris' work rota."

Cole put his hands on his hips, his face slipping into confusion, "He asked me to."

There was a pause. Fareld chuckled to himself as he slipped on his gloves and set Legionnaire down on the floor. Before he could turn and begin his patrol again, however, his father stopped him.

"Fareld," he said, "Come to the study after your shift. I have a lesson plan written up."

"Oh. We're actually doing that?"

"I said I would, didn't I?" he smiled. Fareld stared at him for a beat, and then nodded, guarding his face of all emotion.

 _He kept his word._


End file.
